ALVMNW  BOOK  FVND 


BARBED   WIRE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

EDWIN  FORD  PIPER 


THE  MIDLAND  PRESS 
1917 


Copyright,  1917, 

by 
EDWIN  FORD  PIPER 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY  FATHER  AND  MY  MOTHER 

PIONEERS  IN  NEBRASKA 

IN  THE  YEAR 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND 

SIXTY-NINE 


BARBED  WIRE 

THE  MOVERS 1 

BY  THE  ROAD 2 

DRY  BONES 3 

ONCE  ON  A  TIME 4 

THE  LAST  ANTELOPE 5 

THE  COWBOY 6 

THE  SETTLER 8 

THE  HORSE  THIEF 9 

BARBED  WIRE 13 

THE  WELL 

I.    WATER  BARRELS 15 

II.     THE  WINDMILL 17 

III.     THE  WELL  DIGGER 18 

BREAKING  SOD 21 

THE  SOD  HOUSE 22 

THE  DROUGHT 24 

THE  FORD  AT  THE  RIVER 25 

THE  PRAIRIE  FIRE 26 

THE  BOY  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 28 

ANNIE 30 

THE  GRASSHOPPERS 32 

THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS 34 

THE  RIVER  ONCE  MORE 38 

TEN  CENTS  A  BUSHEL 41 

THREE  PER  CENT.  A  MONTH 43 

MEANWHILE 45 

THE  CHURCH  49 


THE  NEIGHBORHOOD 

HAVE  You  AN  EYE 55 

THE  RIDGE  FARM 57 

IN  THE  CANYON 62 

ROAD  AND  PATH 74 

THE  NEIGHBORHOOD 76 

THE  BANDED 80 

NATHAN  BRIGGS 82 

MISTER  DWIGGINS 85 

THE  CLAIM-JUMPER 

I.     AT  HER  DUGOUT 90 

II.     THE  JUMPER 93 

III.     JARVIS  WAITED 98 

JOE  TAYLOR 100 

THE  PARTY 

MOON  WORSHIP 104 

I.     THE  GATHERING 105 

II.     THE  GAMES 107 

THE  KEY HI 

THE  DRIVER 

I.     AT  THE  POST-OFFICE 113 

II.     IN  A  PUBLIC  PLACE  .....  118 

III.     THE  MAN  WITH  THE  KEY  ONCE  MORE        .  122 


Barbed  Wire 


THE    MOVERS 

The  meadow-larks  rejoice,  as  the  bright  sun 
Drinks  up  the  burdening  dew  from  slender  grass, 
From  flower  cups,  purple,  yellow,  white,  and  blue, 
In  the  green  swells  o'er  which  the  dusty  trail 
Lies  like  a  loose  gray  ribbon.    Westward  creeps 
The  jolting  prairie  schooner,  and  its  wheels 
Talk  on  the  axle  while  the  sweating  bays 
Draw  sturdily,  nodding  their  patient  heads. 
Humped  on  his  spring  seat  'neath  the  canvas  roof, 
The  bearded,  weather-beaten  driver  guides 
With  slackened  line.  An  eager  boy  and  girl — 
The  lass  with  yellow  curls,  the  lad  well  tanned — 
Peer  close  beside  him.    From  the  hidden  depths 
Comes  the  low  crooning  of  a  lullaby. 
The  meadow-larks  rejoice,  the  wild  flowers  blow — 
He  eyes  the  dusty  margin  of  the  trail 
Communing  with  his  vision  of  a  home. 


BY  THE  EOAD 

The  dusty  wheels  have  left  the  rutted  road 
For  the  shelter  of  the  elm  tree.    Boy  and  girl, 
Glad  to  stretch  muscles  cramped  the  whole  day  long, 
Explore  the  brook  bank;  from  the  camp-fire  smoke 
A  kneeling  woman  shields  her  eyes ;  the  smell 
Of  savory  meat  and  coffee  calls  the  man 
From  mending  harness ;  on  the  wood  grass  sweet 
The  horses '  mouths  are  noisy ;  golden  light 
Sifts  through  the  lower  elm  leaves,  and  afar 
The    quail    gives    challenge,    and    the    wood    dove 
mourns. 

The  symphony  of  night  lays  starry  glooms 
Upon  the  open  spaces.    Overhead, 
The  faintest  stream  of  air  goes  trickling  slow 
Among  the  sleeping  leaves,  while  in  the  dew 
The  blossomed  grape  and  elderberry  drip 
With  honeyed  fragrance.    In  such  luxury 
The  movers  lie  under  the  smiling  stars 
One  night  more  on  the  road  to  the  new  land. 


[2] 


DRY  BONES 

Late  August  glares,  a  wagon  filled  with  bones, 
Strange  harvest  from  the  prairies,  seeks  the  town. 
The  buyer  pays  a  dollar  for  a  ton. 

The  square,  squat  houses,  the  low  shedlike  stores 
"Weathering  unpainted,  toe  the  littered  street 
That  finds  the  railway  station.    By  the  track, 
A  fenced  lot  heaped  with  well  bleached  skeletons, — 
Mountainous  wreckage,  shin  and  back  confused, 
Crowned  with  horned  skulls  grotesquely  menacing. 

So  ends  the  buffalo.    Five  years  since  he  tossed 
In  great  earth-shaking  herds  his  shaggy  mane; 
Now  not  one  calf.    Once  furious  bulls  did  roar 
The  challenge  moving  terribly  to  fight. 
Dry  bones  —  the  price  one  dollar  for  a  ton. 


[3] 


ONCE  ON  A  TIME 

Once  on  a  time  the  plain  with  breeze  and  sun 
On  wild  brown  herds  a-grazing  where  the  trails 
Wind  to  the  living  water;  once  is  done, — 
Once  is  the  chosen  word  of  old  wives'  tales. 

The  keen-faced  Indian,  arrow  to  bent  bow, 
Steers  on  the  hounding  pony  with  his  knees, 
Outriding  some  huge  thundering  buffalo 
That  he  may  couch  on  robe,  and  feast  at  ease. 

With  needlegun  the  sportsman,  jaunty,  brisk, 
Three  before  breakfast  slaughters;  lets  them  lie; 
Writes  in  his  diary.     Still  the  yearlings  frisk 
As  to  the  waterholes  the  herds  roll  by. 

The  buffalo  skinner  stacks  the  reeking  pelt; 
One  stench  of  rotting  carcass  drowns  the  plain; 
Buzzard  and  coyote,  ant  and  fly  have  smelt 
The  offence,  but  all  their  scavengery  is  vain 

To  sweeten  any  breeze.     The  hireling  skins 
Fresh  kill  and  noisome  carrion  in  his  greed, 
Glutting,  the  while,  his  fancy  on  the  sins 
His  dirty  pay  in  his  cheap  soul  may  breed. 

Once  on  a  time  the  rival  bulls  did  roar 

Their  fighting  challenge;  once  —  0  nevermore! 


[4] 


THE  LAST  ANTELOPE 

Behind  the  board  fence  at  the  banker's  house 

The  slender,  tawn-gray  creature  starves  and  thirsts 

In  agony  of  fear.     A  dog  may  growl, 

It  cowers;  the  cockcrow  shakes  it  with  alarm. 

White  frost  lay  heavy  on  the  buffalo  grass 
That  winter  morning  when  three  graceful  shapes 
Slipped  by  the  saddle-back  across  the  ridge 
Along  the  rutted  pathway  to  the  creek. 
In  former  years  the  track  was  bare,  and  worn 
With  feet  of  upland  creatures  every  day. 
A  boy  spied  these  three  outlaws.    Two  hours'  chase, 
Fifty  pursuers,  and  the  ways  all  stopped,— 
Guns,  dogs,  and  fences.     Torn  by  the  barbed  wire, 
Drilled  by  a  dozen  buckshot,  one ;  the  next, 
O'erheaped  by  snapping  jaws,  cried  piteously 
An  instant;  but  the  last  on  treacherous  ice 
Crashed  through,  a  captive. 

Eopes — the  jolting  wagon — 
Its  heart  was  audible  as  you  touched  its  fur. 

Behind  the  board  fence  at  the  banker's  house, — 
0,  once  it  capered  wild  on  dewy  grass 
In  grace  and  glee  of  dancing,  arrowy  bounds ! — 
At  the  banker's  house,  behind  the  high  board  fence 
The  last  slim  pronghorn  perishes  of  fear. 


[5] 


THE  COWBOY 

"0  once  in  my  saddle  I  used  to  go  dashing, 
O  once  in  my  saddle  I  used  to  be  gay!" 

Belted  with  Colt  and  cartridge,  spur  on  heel, 
The  tall,  spare  form  is  tricked  for  holiday, 
With  bowlegs  curved  in  buckskins,  a  snake's  hide 
Banding  his  hat,  while  round  his  leaning  neck, 
Half  hidden  by  the  curling,  sunburnt  hair, 
A  silken  rainbow  rolls  to  a  large  gold  ring. 
Sun   browned   mustache    half   hides    his    laughing 
mouth. 

Mexican  dollars  shine  as  the  rosettes 
On  saddle  and  braided  bridle.    Let  him  mount! 
In  his  long  stirrups  with  what  ease  he  takes 
The  pony's  motion,  while  it  moves  at  speed 
Snatches  the  trailing  lariat ! 

Of  his  skill 

To  rope  and  ride  he  is  silent,  and  his  gun 
Stays  in  his  belt  till  needed.    He  can  swear, 
Can  lose  unruffled  six  months '  pay  at  cards, 
Bestow  in  nameless  bounty  his  last  cent, 
And  spite  of  wind,  and  dust,  and  Texas  steers, 
And  undiluted  whisky,  still  can  sing 
In  the  night  wind  the  longhorn  's  lullaby. 

By  innate  force  of  spirit  he  is  kin 

To  old  adventurers.    While  trick,  and  trade, 

[6] 


And  blue-sky  lots  made  fat  the  souls  and  speech 
Of  men,  this  romantic  rebel,  sick  of  smugness 
And  cheatery,  let  his  birthright  blessing  go, 
Wild  for  free  life,  the  pony,  and  the  range. 

He  might  have  been  conductor, — congressman 
With  a  post-office  named  after  him ;  he  is 
Unstable  as  water,  loyal  to  the  death, 
A  creature  of  impulse,  and  he  still  can  sing ; 
Not  quite  a  grown-up  spite  of  forty  years. 


[7] 


THE  SETTLER 

In  Westertown  a  statue  rules  the  square, 
The  settler  as  the  sculptor  visioned  him. 
Nor  slender,  nor  yet  massive ;  sinewy, 
Bearded,  erect,  broad  shouldered,  hand  on  spade. 
Shirt  sleeve  uprolled  o'er  muscular  forearm, 
Alert  eye,  faithful  mouth,  and  forehead  full 
Of  hope. 

Such  is  the  image.    The  real  man 
Is  fat,  is  scrawny,  is  Apollo-like; 
Glares  like  a  hawk,  blinks  like  some  bleary  pig, 
Moves  like  a  Victory,  hirples  like  a  hare. 
The  spirits  of  the  just  are  perfected ; 
The  sculptor  carves  ideal  form  in  stone. 

Nay,  the  real  settler  is  not  simply  man ; 
But  wife  and  child  in  laughing,  loving  group 
Lead  the  celestial  sunshine  of  man's  dreams 
Which  he  names  home.    And  after  them  in  troops, 
The  beast  and  bird  that  own  man's  mastery 
Graze  the  new  pastures  to  his  comforting; 
While  afar,  hover  arts  that  minister 
To  the  spirit,  lingering  till  the  plough  shall  break 
The  thorny  wilderness  to  the  fruitful  field. 


[8] 


THE  HOBSE  THIEF 


By  the  ditch  in  the  hollow  stands  the  tree, 

A  cottonwood  with  deeply  wrinkled  bark 

About  its  mighty  trunk,  and  limbs  that  spread, 

And  leaves  that  gleam  and  shimmer  in  the  sun, 

The  oracle  of  any  moody  breeze. 

Aloft,  the  bee-bird  spies ;  here  orioles  sing,— 

In  vain  we  boys  risked  necks  to  reach  their  nests, 

To  see,  touch,  boast  of  —  0,  no  thievery. 


Here  in  a  gentle  wind  the  body  swayed. 

His  hands  were  bound  behind,  and  his  dead  weight 

Dangled  with  feet  not  far  above  the  ground 

Where  the  sombrero  lay  brim  uppermost. 

His  shoes  were  frayed  by  grass  blades ;  a  gold  ring 

Shone  from  one  hand ;  about  his  blackened  throat 

The  gay  silk  kerchief  loosely  knotted  lay. 

The  rope  was  higher,  right  against  his  chin. 

A  boyish  face,  scarce  bearded,  but  now  marked 

With  the  last  agony  in  those  bursting  eyes, 

A  glassy  blue,  mouth  drawn  in  grinning  pain 

To  show  with  what  a  struggle  life  broke  loose 

From  his  young  body.    Yet  his  soft  brown  hair 

Was  neatly  parted,  just  one  lock  waved  low 

Over  the  forehead.    All  of  this  we  saw 

While  men  sought  out  a  tool  to  cut  the  rope. 

[9] 


n 


His  watch  contained  a  picture  I  was  told, 
They  thought  his  mother's,  but  they  could  not  find 
A  hint.    No  doubt  the  horse  thief  saw  to  that, 
Took  comfort  thence.    The  prison  cells  are  full 
Of  men  who  veil  themselves  with  alias 
Lest  kindred  share  disgrace.    And  nameless  graves, 
And  vagabonds  in  exile !    Lost,  and  lost ! 
Perhaps  this  whole  long  winter  evening  through, 
While  the  wood  fire  hums  its  low,  sad  tune, 
And  the  knitting  needles  click,  and  the  open  page 
Is  scarcely  turned,  father  and  mother  muse 
Of  the  boy  who  vanished  alive  in  the  strange  wild 
land. 

Was  it  for  love,  or  hate,  or  avarice? 
Or  untamed  blood  that  wantons  in  the  breast, 
Spurring  the  soul  to  pass  all  barriers 
As  it  had  wings,  not  limping  feet  of  clay, 
That  brought  him  to  the  unmarked,  grassy  mound 
They  call  the  horse  thief's  grave?     We  shall  not 
know. 


[10] 


Ill 


' '  Old  Gray  gone  ?    Why,  we  loved  him  human-like ! ' ' 
"It's  thirty  miles  with  loads  to  market,  store !" 
"The  plough  rusts  in  the   furrows !"     "Ripened 

wheat 

Must  fall  for  birds  I"    "He  is  professional, 
Outrides  pursuit,  and  makes  horse  stealing  pay ! ' ' 
"A  gang  with  stations!" 

0,  a  dozen  like 

Reasons  of  sentiment  and  poise.    Did  such 
Lead  twenty  men  to  coolly  hang  this  boy? 
Or  did  some  underlying  passion  burn 
Their  hearts,  flare  up  in  cruelty? 

Hear,  and  judge. 

He  answered  or  kept  silence  as  he  would, 
Without  manhandling,  till  the  proof  of  guilt 
Cast  its  black  shadow.    Slowly  to  the  tree, 
His  captors  all  rode  mute.    The  thief  might  pray, 
Or  plead  or  curse.    By  glimmering  lantern  light 
He  stands  in  the  saddle  while  the  rope  is  tied ; 
The  leader  speaks,  the  horses  start,  the  dark 
Enfolds  the  dangling  struggler. 

Custom  this ; 
Stark  custom,  wherein  rough  men  harden  heart 


[ii] 


Melting  so  kindly  to  the  desperate  plea 
For  mercy.    This  youth  knew  what  path  he  chose ; 
Played  life  against  the  slipnoose  snare  and  lost. 
The  people  judged,  and  carried  out  their  law, 
Effecting  sentence  rather  than  revenge. 

Their  law  takes  life  for  that  which  money  buys? 

Unduly  harsh,  perhaps.    Consider  this : 
What  money  has  the  settler,  and  wherewith 
Shall  he  make  purchase?    Livelihood  and  life, 
From  settler  and  his  family?    Death  to  thieves! 
Of  course,  rope  won't  reform  a  horse  thief's  soul, 
But  it  warns  stealers  of  such  heavy  risk 
A  man  can  tie  his  team  on  grass  at  night 
And  find  it  in  the  morning.    Life  is  life — 
Nor  cheaper  here  than  in  the  city  streets, 
Except  to  those  who  covet  horse, — or  rope. 


[12] 


BAEBED  WIEE 

The  prairie  cleft  by  skirmish  lines  of  fence — 
High-headed  longhorns  bound  for  pastures  new — 
Torn  denim  fluttering  and  profane  dispraise — 
The  sod  house  and  the  ranks  of  silking  corn, 
But,  oh,  the  crippled  horses  at  the  plough! 

Dobbin  was  mettlesome  two  years  ago ; 

But  he'll  prance  no  more,  he'll  never  kick  up  his 

heels, 

For  one  knee  crooks  out,  one  leg  has  a  dragging  limp ; 
He's  notched  and  scarred  with  gashes.    Gray's  front 

foot 

Is  doubled  in  size,  stiff,  lumpy,  hairless,  too. 
The  poor  colt  pawed  that  hoof  over  the  fence, 
And  pulled  and  sawed  for  hours.    The  pine  tar 
With  which  we  filled  the  wound  did  heal  it  up. 
Horses  are  horses.    Curses  on  barbed  wire ! 

When  longhorns  overran  the  settler's  land 
The  herd  law  would  not  grant  him  damages 
Unless  his  crop  was  fenced.    Hail  to  barbed  wire ! 
It  broke  the  free  range,  sent  the  cowman  west, — 
Cowboys  in  dimmer  distance,  riding,  riding 
Into  rich  sunset  light  whence  lingering  notes 
Drift  over  dusky  distances  of  trail. 


[13] 


[  Come  on,  old  Slowf oot,  sift  along, 
We  got  to  make  Mud  River  to-night. 
Your  ribs  is  lank  and  your  hair  is  long, 
But  a  month  on  the  range  '11  put  you  right. 

!  You're  going  to  wish  for  the  bluestem  hay, 
And  the  buffalo  grass  so  sweet  and  high ; 
But  you  '11  get  a  home  on  the  Cactus  Range 
If  you  don 't  strike  too  much  alkali. 

:  Good-bye,  good-bye  to  the  Frenchman  Fork, 
To  the  sandbar  mush  they  call  the  Platte ; 
We  '11  make  our  home  in  the  sagebrush  hills 
Till  the  devil  puts  a  fence  on  that. 

;  They  say  that  heaven  is  a  free  range  land, — 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  0  fare  you  well, — 
But  it's  barbed  wire  for  the  devil's  hat  band, 
And  barbed  wire  blankets  down  in  hell." 


[14] 


THE  WELL 

The  brimming  bucket  at  my  mouth  — 

Coolness  of  water! 
In  all  my  veins  the  heat,  the  drouth, — 

O,  the  well  tvater! 


WATER  BARRELS 

Within  the  lumber  wagon  by  the  well 
The  barrels  stand,  and  little  snowflakes  drive 
Across  them  while  the  pulley  groans  and  creaks 
As  on  the  stubborn  frozen  rope,  the  wrists 
Of  the  hauler  lean  till  the  bucket  clears  the  curb. 
He  seizes  the  bail,  and  drags,  and  strains  tiptoe 
To  reach  above  the  barrel.    Driblets  wet 
His  garments  through  and  stiffen  into  ice. 
Seventy  buckets  and  done !    Cover  the  barrels. 
Three  miles  of  windy  road !    The  nervous  bays 
Surge  heavily  on  the  bits,  while  numb  hands  ache 
Holding  them  in  lest  jolting  waste  the  water. 
The  driver  walks.    Meanwhile  the  pulley  laboring 
Over  the  fifty  feet  from  bucket  to  bucket 
Groans  on  in  the  snow  to  serve  another  hauler. 


[15] 


The  upland  wells  will  be  deep,  they  are  long  a-dig- 

ging; 

So  wagons  rattle  down  with  the  empty  water  barrels, 
And  wagons  creep  heavily  home  with  the  barrels 

sloshing. 

Yes,  I  did  hear.    If, —  if  there  came  a  fire? 
Be  still !    To  that  no  one  but  God  can  answer. 


[16] 


II 

THE  WINDMILL 

Yes,  July  heat.    You'll  drink  another  dipper. 

The  old  wheel  creaks  and  strains.  Give  her  good 
breezes, 

She  spins  around  as  pretty  as  a  picture. 

And  it  blows  every  day  as  if  to  keep 

Our  hundred  barrel  tank  full  to  the  brim. 

Two  hundred  feet,  and  half  the  depth  hard  rock,  sir. 

Yes,  dug.    A  sizable  hole ;  you  see  that  dirt  pile. 

A  dollar  for  each  foot  down,  and  board  and  lodging; 

He  took  his  five  months '  wages,  bought  an  eighty. 

0  yes,  we  lived  here  while  the  well  was  digging ; 

Each  day  for  stock  and  house  we  hauled  three  bar 
rels. 

It  grew  a  little  stale,  sucked  up  a  wood  taste ; 

Now  this  comes  clear  and  cold  from  porous  sand 
stone, 

And  on  a  hot  day  —  there,  the  tank  runs  over. 


[17] 


Ill 

THE  WELL  DIGGER 

"Spring  up,  0  well; 
Sing  ye  unto  it: 
The  princes  digged  the  well, 
The  nobles  of  the  people  digged  it, 
By  the  direction  of  the  lawgivers 
With  their  staves." 

Numbers  XXI,  17,  18. 

Jim  surely  did  not  look  much  like  a  prince ; 

As  —  owning  no  horse  —  he  toiled  with  a  sack  of 

flour 

Six  miles  across  the  prairie  to  his  soddy. 
He  stopped  at  our  place,  wiped  the  sweat  away; 
His  Adam's  apple  shuttling  as  he  held 
The  dipper  long  to  his  mouth  while  he  sat  stooped 
In  a  big  chair  in  the  shadow  of  the  house. 
A  tall,  thin,  wiry  man  with  rusty  beard, 
Flat  nose,  and  scrawny  brows  over  hollow  eyes 
Glinting  with  fire. 

" Sonny,  I  dug  this  well." 
"It's  a  good  well,  Jim." 

"You  bet  she  is,  damn  good! 
My  wells  dug  end  on  end  would  make  a  mile. ' ' 

"Did  you  like  digging?" 

[18] 


"No,  I  won't  say  like. 

Paid  me  when  pay  was  scarce.     Too  much  stone- 
grit; 

Bad  for  the  lungs.    They  lower  pretty  slow 
So  that  the  rope  won't  spin  you  on  the  walls. 
You  look  up,  see  a  silver  dime  of  the  sky 
Crossed  by  the  windlass.    You  don't  know  the  sky 
Till  you  see  her  from  a  well  hole.    And  your  voice 
Answers  the  tender  with  a  boomin'  sound 
As  if  from  seventy  barrels.    If  he  kicks 
Some  grains  of  gravel,  stings  you  worse 'n  hail 
At  a  hundred  feet." 

"Anything  ever  fall?" 

"Yes,  yes.    I  was  a  diggin'  Blakesley's  well. 
I  hunch  myself  up  closer  than  the  most, 
And  make  a  hole  that's  only  three  foot  ten 
'Stead  of  four  feet.    It  saves  a  heap  o'  dirt. 
Down  ninety  foot,  his  brother  tendin'  me. 
We  used  a  nail  keg  with  a  bail  of  wire ; 
I  filled  it  with  small  stone,  he  drawed  it  up 
Most  of  the  way.    I  heard  a  kind  of  swish, 
Looked,  saw  her  comin'.    Yes,  the  wire  had  broke  — 
Got  bent   wrong,   snapped.     Kebunk,  kebunk,   ke- 

bunk, 

She  hit  first  one  then  tother  side.    I  stood 
Flat  to  the  wall  in  no  time,  and  kewhiz, 
The  nail  keg  took  my  shirt  a  glancing  blow. 
Buttons  and  cloth  and  hide  went.    Good  I'm  thin. 

[19] 


I  fell  on  the  bucket  in  a  shower  of  stones. 
No,  didn't  feel  'em,  didn't  know  a  thing. 
My  breast  was  black  for  three  weeks.  'N'  I  said 

then, 

*I  work  hereafter  where  I've  room  to  dodge; 
I  don't  want  all  hell  a-fallin'  on  my  head 
Without  a  hole  to  run  to.'    Then  they  got 
A  drill  machine  'bout  seven  miles  below. 
It  drills  'em.    'N'  I  quit.    My  wife  was  after  me 
To  quit  before." 

"  Jim,  tell  me  what  you  thought 
When  you  saw  her  comin'." 

1  <  Think  f    There  wasn  't  time. 
I  thought,  if  she  hits  she  makes  a  pancake  of  me. 
Thin,  to  the  wall!" 

4 'Was  that  the  only  time?" 

"I  must  be  movin'!    Another  dipper,  sonny." 

"But   weren't   you    often   afraid   the   rope   might 
break?" 

"No,  hardly  ever.    Your  mind  is  on  your  work. 
Once  a  week,  maybe,  it  would  come  to  me, 
If  she  caves, —  good-bye.    Yes,  once  she  caved. 

"My  gosh! 

I  got  to  travel.    Thank  you,  that's  good  water  — 
Some  other  time,  boy.    Home  by  noon.    Good-bye." 

[20] 


BREAKING  SOD 

The  level  field  of  gray-green  buffalo  grass 

Still  narrows  as  the  sweating  bays  plod  on, 

And  that  black  ribbon  at  the  ploughtail  rolls 

Beside  its  drier  neighbor.     Clevis  gear 

And  doubletree  complain  while  the  plough  sings, 

Shearing  through  grass  roots,  burying  weed  and 

flower, 

Unhousing  worm  and  grub  for  eager  beaks, 
The  blackbird  and  the  meadow-lark  that  flit 
To  the  heels  of  the  ploughman. 

Never  any  more 

Shall  wild  flock  pasture  here  on  grasses  wild; 
But  bearded  wheat  shall  flourish,  corn  shall  ear, 
The  weeds  shall  burr  and  blossom,  strong  battalions. 
And  man  shall  serve  the  land  in  hunger  and  sorrow, 
Worship  and  love  the  bounteous,  old  earth-mother, 
Rejoicing  in  the  furrows  of  his  field. 


[21] 


THE  SOD  HOUSE 

The  hoof-beats  sound,  the  harness  clacks  and  clinks, 
The  wagon  rattles  in  the  frosty  air 
Along  the  level  prairie  road  that  swings 
To  the  low,  dark  bulk  whereon  the  sodded  roof 
Bristles  with  meager,  winter-beaten  weeds. 
Before  it,  ranks  of  whip-like  trees  stand  guard; 
Behind  lie  cribs,  straw  sheds,  the  well,  the  woodpile, 
And  the  garden  square  fenced  in  by  a  gooseberry 

hedge 
From  weathering  stalks  and  stubble.     The  house 

front 

Shows  but  two  windows  and  one  deep-set  door. 
How  plain  the  lines  of  old  gray  grass  that  check 
Layer  from  layer  all  the  mud-brown  wall 
Though  rain,  and  wind,  and  sun,  and  frost  have 

crumbled 

The  edges  from  the  sods.     A  visitor 
May  pass  the  gable  to  lift  the  home-made  latch 
Of  the  lean-to  kitchen  buttressing  the  rear. 

What  warmth!    How  smooth  and  clean  the  earthen 

floor! 

The  low  room  shines  with  kitchen-gear  in  order. 
The    living    room    is    curtained.     Smooth,    bright 

boards 


[22] 


O  'erlie  the  dressed  log  rafters ;  braided  rugs 
Bless  the  pine  floor,  and  homely  chairs  draw  near 
To  table,  stove,  and  bookshelf.    Last  and  best, 
Within  the  windows'  deep  recesses,  flowers, 
Wax  plant,  geranium,  fuchsia,  and  oxalis, 
Full-blossomed  spite  of  every  wintry  wind. 


[23] 


THE  DROUGHT 

The  light  of  noon  comes  reddened  from  a  sky 
A-blur  with  dust;  the  irritable  wind 
Burns  on  your  cheek,  and  leans  against  your  gar 
ments 

Like  a  hot  iron.    Cloud  after  cloud,  the  dust 
Sweeps  the  road,  rattles  on  the  dirty  canvas 
Of  the  schooner  so  dispiritedly  drawn 
By  drooping  horses.    On  the  whitening  grass, 
With  bright  and  helpless  eyes,  a  meadow-lark 
Sits  open-beaked,  and  desperately  mute. 
The  thin,  brown  wheat  that  was  too  short  to  cut 
Stands  in  the  field ;  the  feeble  corn,  breast  high, 
Shows  yellowed  leaf  and  tassel.    With  slack  line 
The  bearded,  gaunt,  stoop-shouldered  driver  sits 
As  if  in  sleep  some  mounting  wave  of  sorrow 
Had  overpassed  him,  and  he  still  dreamed  on. 
Within  the  schooner  children's  voices  wail; 
A  mother's  tones  bring  quiet.    The  sun  glares, 
The  wind  drones  and  makes  dirty  all  the  sky. 
The  horses  scarcely  fight  the  vicious  flies. 

This  is  departure,  but  there  are  who  stay. 


[24] 


THE  FOED  AT  THE  EIVER 

Through  thin,  gray,  moving  clouds  a  summer  sun 
Lies  like  dull  silver  on  the  rippled  stream. 
Now  gusts  alarm,  now  quiet  stills  the  leaves 
That  shade  the  steep  bank  where  the  wagon  presses 
The  shrinking  team  to  splash  in  belly  deep. 
The  wagon  sways,  a  breeze  tugs  at  our  hats, 
And  the  clear  water,  clutching  near  our  feet 
The  wheel-spokes,  spins  on  into  roilly  flurries. 
Our  hearts  beat  fast.     It  deepens  now,  and  strikes 
The  tongue,  the  tugs,  the  box-floor,  spurts  up  in 
The  lurching  wagon,  as  over  hidden  hole 
And  treacherous  dip  we  venture.     The  box  lifts, 
The  current  drags,  the  horses  well  nigh  swim, 
We  speak  not,  scarcely  breathe. 

It  shallows  fast; 

The  horses'  knees  splash  out  and  in,  we  near 
The  gravel  bar,  the  water  lets  us  go ; 
We  drip  across  bright  sand  to  the  weedy  road 
Under  the  singing  leaves,  still  looking  back 
To  the  dull  silver  water,  and  the  minutes 
Vibrant  with  beatings  of  the  heart. 

A  bridge 

Echoes  to  dry-shod  feet,  but  in  the  fordway 
Man  grapples  still  the  spirit  of  the  stream. 


[25] 


THE  PRAIRIE  FIRE 

0,  the  red  tongues!    The  leavings  of  the  fire! 

Red  sunshine  in  October's  smoky  air 

With  all  dry  grasses  rustling  in  the  breeze 

Where  fireguards  saved  them.     But  most  fields  and 

hills 
Lie  black,  and  one  can  smell  and  taste  burned  grass. 

Grim  landscape,  grim  as  death!    Leavings  of  fire! 
Wild  things  to  whom  the  grass  was  as  a  forest 
Woven  with  saving  colors,  naked,  famishing, 
Face    sharp-eyed    foes.     Next    season's    bud    is 

scorched, 

Her  butterfly  roasted.     Only  the  green-lobed  cactus, 
Cooked  to  pale  yellow,  writhes  half  dead. 

Red  sunshine ! 

'Twas  yesterday  a  pillar  of  leaning  smoke 
Surprised  us,  speeding  from  the  north.     Men  hur 
ried 

With  water  and  wet  cloth  for  beating  flames ; 
And  at  the  furrows  kindled  wavering  lines 
Of  backfire  that  must  eat  against  the  wind 
To  meet  the  blaze  racing  through  delicate  grass 
A-flash  like  tinder.     But  where  bluestem  grew 
The  flame  rose  yards,  and  the  counter-fire  leaped 
Whirling,  and  their  red  wings  embracing  lifted  them 
Into  the  roaring  smoke. 

[26] 


O,  the  red  leaping! 

Jack-rabbits  aimlessly  scurried,  the  while  enormous 
Tumbleweeds  ablaze  came  rolling,  rolling,  rolling 
Over  the  widest  guards. 

0,  the  red  sunshine ! 
Wreckage  and  ashes  where  wheat  ricks  clustered 

ready, 
With   the   threshing  machine   among  them.     That 

mound  was  a  barn; 

The  straw  heaped  over  poles  flared  up  like  a  torch; 
A  youth  rushed  in  to   rescue  his  horse,   but  the 

creature 
Wild-eyed  with  stupor  and  terror  kept  leaping  and 

cowering. 
We  heard  his  voice  ring  out  from  the  roar  of  the  red 

tongues. 
Ashes  covered  their  bones. 

The  leavings  of  fire ! 

The  smile  in  his  eyes,  the  laughter,  the  soft,  boyish 
mouth  - 

Yesterday's  sunshine! 

The  praise  from  his  sweetheart,  the  tunes  of  the  first 
adoration 

A-ripple,  a-dance  in  his  breast  — 

0,  the  leavings  of  fire! 


[27] 


THE  BOY  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 

At  thirteen  he  first  saw  a  railway  train 

With  all  the  amazing  violence  of  the  wheels, 

And  the  coughing  engine,  and  the  rebuking  bell, 

A  theme  for  round-eyed  wonder.     He  could  ride 

A  bucking  pony,  cut  strange  toys  in  wood, 

Braid  hair  or  leather  into  lasso  knot, 

Dive,  swim,  throw  stones, —  lacked  mates  for  bat  and 

ball- 
But  with  a  rifle  could  behead  a  quail, 
Such  lore  men  taught  him. 

And  he  whiled  long  hours 
Of  lonely  sunshine  with  his  horse  and  dog; 
Their  hearty  love  dilating  soft,  bright  eyes, 
Pricking  the  glossy  ears,  —  their  comradeship 
In  quiverings,  poisings  of  graceful  bodies, 
Plain,  age-old  words  of  the  beasts. 

He  learned  to  read 

The  look  and  life  of  all  that  roamed  the  wild ; 
Where  the  first  elm  seeds  showered  on  April  grass, 
Why  creatures  slipped  through  thicket,  or  stirless, 

hid; 
Where  coyotes  denned,  how  plover  nest  on  the 

ground, 

Two  pear-shaped  eggs  the  color  of  grass  in  dust, 
Open  to  sight,  so  hard  to  see. 

[28] 


And  he  knew 

The  frowns  and  benedictions  of  the  sky; 
Whether  piled  thunderheads  bridged  all  the  blue, 
Or  horsetails  wavered  in  the  path  of  wind, 
Or  solid  gray  led  up  the  long,  long  rain. 
He  saw  the  earth  arrayed  in  all  its  hours; 
The  level  sun  laugh  in  the  morning  dew 
A-shimmer  on  each  grass-blade  while  bare  feet 
Were  happy  in  that  coolness ;  he  saw  the  snow 
One  dazzle  under  winter  sunlight  shoot 
A  flickering  rainbow  in  rebellious  eyes. 

Sometimes  he  read  the  weekly  newspaper; 
And  winter  evenings  helped  him  into  books. 
On  him  the  Ancient  Mariner  cast  a  spell ; 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake  answered  his  horn ; 
He  struck  the  proudest  blow  in  Chevy  Chase, 
Linking  the  while  Kit  Carson,  Daniel  Boone, 
With  Grant  and  Lincoln  as  his  greatest  men. 


[29] 


ANNIE 

Maybe  nine  years,  her  hair  in  yellow  braids, 
Blue  eyes  that  smiled  and  wondered.     Unto  her 
The  prairie  had  a  spirit;  its  wild  dells 
Might  catch  you,  lose  you;  and  its  pathless  slopes 
Swung  twenty  miles,  and  melting  into  sky 
Curtained  a  world  of  marvels. 

She  had  heard 

Her  father  and  her  mother  speak  of  such. 
The  pictures,  too,  in  the  geography 
Entranced  her.     How  conceive  Gibraltar  Rock, 
Straight  up  a  hundred  times  as  high  as  the  house? 
The  water  roared  and  foamed  at  Hinton's  Dam; 
Niagara  then  — ?     And  her  one  fairy  book 
Eead  all  to  pieces,  rendered  little  clue 
To  the  wide  prairies  and  their  witchery. 

She  heard  the  crane's  cry,  and  the  wild  goose  note, 

The  grouse  make  love  at  dawn  ere  April  came, 

The  groans  of  nighthawks,  screaming  of  killdeer, 

Twittering  of  swallows,  blackbirds'  cheerful  call. 

The  flowers  were  her  good  gossips;  violets, 

The  buffalo  peas,  sheep  sorrel,  spiderwort ; 

The  milky  sheen  of  poppies,  red  moss  rose 

A  mellow  velvet,  spikes  of  blazing  star; 

The  evening  primrose  delicately  pale; 

The  Spanish  bayonet's  spire  of  drooping  bells; 

The  sensitive  plant's  red  ball  o'erspiced  with  gold; 

[30] 


Voluptuous  yellow  of  the  honey  cups 

The  cactus  guards;  plain-thinking  goldenrod. 

For  playmates  a  cat,  solemnity  on  four  legs, 
And  a  doll  for  which  her  needle  made  awkward 

seams. 

She  read  and  wrote,  filled  pages  with  criss-cross, 
Knitted  on  spools,  helped  mother,  hunted  eggs ; 
Learned  one  by  one  all  the  beatitudes, 
Abou,  A  Psalm  of  Life,  and  Lucy  Gray; 
Was  patient  over  faults  in  featherstitch 
If  mother's  mellow  voice  sang  sweet  old  songs. 

Sometimes  she  changed  a  timid,  helpless  word 
With  little  girls  at  church;  or  rarer  still, 
An  old-time  visit  gave  for  a  whole  half-day 
Some  child  for  comrade. 

Of  the  world  beyond 

The  horizon  she  had  fancies.     It  was  bright, 
Strange,  and  exciting  like  the  stories  told 
In  twilight  by  her  father;  never  sad, 
Nor  lonely ;  full  of  romance  and  of  dreams. 
In  the  long  lingering  sunset  I  have  seen 
The  steady  eyes  and  wistful  mouth  appeal 
One  moment  to  the  colors  of  the  heavens 
For  answer,  ere  the  dimple  of  her  cheek 
Was  found  by  her  father's  lips,  or  the  childish  voice 
Sang  to  her  doll  a  formal  lullaby. 


[31] 


THE  GRASSHOPPERS 

Down  by  the  orchard  plot  a  man  and  boy, 

The  boy 's  hat  just  above  the  whitened  floor 

Of  oats  half  hiding  the  young  trees  and  swaying 

Under  a  strong  breeze  in  the  blazing  noon. 

The  man  looks  upward,  blinks  with  dazzled  eyes, 

Then  shading  face  with  hand  peers  painfully; 

Little  winged  creatures  drive  athwart  the  sun, 

High  up,  in  ceaseless,  countless  flight  to  the  north. 

His  mood  runs  hot  envisioning  the  past. 

"It  was  three  years  ago  this  very  day. 

' i  Three  years  ago  that  clinging,  hopping  horde 
Made  the  earth  crawl.     With  slobbery  mouths, 
All  leafage,  woody  twig,  and  grain,  and  grass, 
They  utterly  consumed,  leaving  the  land 
Abominable.     The  wind-borne  plague  rained  down 
On  the  full-leaved  tree  where  laughter  rippled  light 
To  answer  odorous  whispers  of  the  flowers. 
Soon,  naked  to  the  blistering  sun,  it  stared 
At  the  bones  of  its  piteous  comrades.     Afterwards, 
A  jest  to  strangers  —  charity  —  cattle  hungering  — 
Women  and  children  starving!     But  the  power  of 

the  creatures! 

The  daughters  of  the  locust,  numberless,  number 
less! 

Jaws  bite,  throats  suck,  the  beauty  of  lovely  fields 
Is  in  their  guts,  the  world  is  but  a  mummy !" 


[32] 


Man  and  boy  turn  from  the  oats  and  the  vigorous 

orchard ; 

But  as  they  go  the  lad  is  looking,  looking 
To  see,  high  up,  like  gnats,  the  winged  millions 
Moving  across  the  sun.     May  God  rebuke  them! 


[33] 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS 


In  morning  breeze,  the  Indian  summer 's  gold 
Of  sun  on  Mildred 's  happy  cheeks  aglow 
Beneath  dark  hair;  it  glistens  on  the  horse, 
A  glossy  chestnut  tossing  his  thick  mane 
In  spirited  canter,  held  straight  on  the  path 
Across  the  rolling  prairie  the  four  miles 
To  the  little,  low,  log  schoolhouse  by  the  creek, 
Two  windows  on  the  side,  a  home-made  door, 
Sod  roof  a  trifle  weedy,  the  rough  ends 
Of  split  ash  rafters  showing  at  the  edge. 
A  shed,  and  ponies  that  will  carry  double  — 
Half  of  the  children  ride. 

Within  the  house 

Pine  tables  in  four  rows,  benches  to  match, 
Incipiently  notched;  a  joyous  map, 
A  painted  blackboard;  a  high  walnut  desk 
Brightened  with  flowers  above  the  slender  stem 
Of  a  glass  vase.    Mid-room  the  mighty  stove, 
A  swallower  of  enormous  chunks  of  wood 
So  that  the  fire  may  roar  within  the  drum, 
And  all  the  stove's  girth  turn  a  glowing  red 
In  challenge  to  the  fury  of  winter  wind. 

This  is  but  brisk  October.     The  bell  calls, 
And  the  tanned  children  in  coarse,  home-made 
clothes 

[34] 


Come  clattering  to  stow  head-gear  on  the  hooks 
Above  the  baskets,  tiptoe  to  the  seats, 
Sing,  hear  the  Bible,  fall  to  study  fast. 
Jimmie's  worn  shoes  must  dangle  in  mid-air 
As  he  prints  with  pride  old  news  about  the  cat ; 
Here  dark  curls  with  red  ribbons  shake  and  bob 
As  Susie  struggles  with  her  fraction  sums ; 
Here  Philip's  mouth  is  grim  as  he  tears  apart 
Some  tough  old  sentence,  settling  word  and  word 
On  the  painful  diagram.    Here  Johnnie  sits 
Enraptured  with  the  animals  and  trees, 
Cities  and  ships  and  wondrous  waterfalls 
Of  the  big  geography,  while  up  in  front 
A  class  drones  heavily  through  Paul  Eevere. 

The  walls  are  chinked  with  plaster;  overhead 
Bun  tie-beam,  purlin,  ridge-pole,  cleanly  barked, 
Supporting  rafters  overlaid  by  willows 
Cut  in  green  leaf,  and  now  upholding  sod. 
Somtimes  a  mouse  runs  rustling;  harmless  snakes 
Come  sliding  to  the  floor,  or  up  the  logs 
A  dusky  lizard  darts. 

"Tis  here  she  moves, 
The  genius  of  the  place,  viewed  as  all  wise 
In  booklore,  honest,  patient,  loving,  kind, 
Courageous :  all  these  talents  for  the  sum 
Of  twenty-five  a  month  and  board  herself. 


[35] 


II 


Shall  not  life  pay  the  man  who  catches  dogs? 
In  his  soul's  garden,  mildew.     Does  a  tree 
Not  utter  unconscious  joy  in  the  exquisite 
Color  and  form  and  fragrance  of  its  fruit? 
There's  natural  joy  in  healthy  human  service, 
Natural,  not  sacrificial.     Monthly  salary 
Is  token  laborers  are  somehow  worthy; 
'Tis  useful,  too,  for  beefsteak,  books,  vacations. 

For  Mildred  much  of  worth  lay  in  the  store 
Her  memory  could  treasure:  the  old  room, 
The  children  clustering,  happiness  in  eye 
And  grace  in  movement ;  Willie 's  gentle  lisp 
Struggling  with  stubborn  words;  the  lame  boy's 

look 

Of  speechless  worship  with  a  yellow  rose ; 
The  five  year  olds  clinging  about  her  skirts ; 
The  half-grown  girls  with  arms  about  her  waist 
Asking  her  to  their  homes ;  great  awkward  boys, 
Heady  as  bulls,  the  slaves  of  her  every  word, 
Toiling  prodigiously  in  Ray's  Third  Part 
Over  cube  root,  and  roaring  at  recess 
In  Prisoner's  Base,  or  old-time  games  of  ball. 

If  Mildred  looked  out  when  the  sweeping  rain 

Blurred  the  gray  prairie,  limiting  her  sight 

To  scanty  fields,  did  fancy  mark  far  miles 

With  rose-lanes  of  romance,  nor  show  the  drudgers 

[36] 


In  sweat  and  dust,  or  did  she  clearly  sense 
Workaday  folk  with  private  griefs  at  heart 
And  a  tune  on  the  lips  in  the  field? 

If  she  had  dreams 

They  colored  and  perfumed  shrines  not  unveiled 
To  vulgar  gaze.     The  girl  had  been  through  college, 
Travelled  to  California  and  New  York; 
For  some  seven  months  she  rode  a  chestnut  horse, 
And  was  the  teacher  of  this  country  school 
At  twenty-five  a  month  and  board  herself. 


[37] 


THE  RIVER  ONCE  MORE 

Since  yesterday  under  a  stiff  north  wind 

The  slanting  rain  with  intermittent  hail 

Had  clinked  against  our  windows.     Now  I  peered 

To  where  the  black  road  split  the  dreary  gray 

Of  the  buffalo  grass,  and  saw  through  the  veil  of 

rain, 

On  a  dark  horse  a  lad  in  a  slicker  lean 
Into  the  storm.    A  white  hat  partly  saved 
His  face  from  the  pelting;  one  bare  hand  held  firm 
The  reluctant  horse  at  canter  as  with  low  head 
It  butted  stormward.     Came  a  burst  of  hail 
And  the  horse  whirled  its  back  to  stones  that  stung 
Upon  its  cold,  wet  skin,  and  set  its  nose 
To  the  ground,  and  shook  its  widely  drooping  ears. 
i ' What  is  it,  John?"  my  father  asked,  and  I, 
"Bill  Turner  riding  Molly ". 

"Ben,  will  you — " 

My  father  spoke  now  to  the  hired  man  — 
"Take  a  horse,  ride  and  stop  him?    He  must  stay 
With  us  to-night.     The  ford  will  not  be  safe. 
I  left  Gray  saddled.     Hurry !" 

Ben  reports 

That  when  he  reached  the  road  he  scarce  could  see, 
In  the  coming  dusk  and  the  veil  of  driving  rain, 
The  boy,  already  half  of  the  short  mile 


[38] 


To  the  ford.    He  galloped  after,  breathless,  sending 
Against  the  gusts  his  hoarse  halloos,  but  lost 
The  lad  in  the  rain-blurred,  leafless  trees  that 

masked 
The  river.     Yet  Gray  shook  from  his  eyes  the 

stinging 

Drops,  and  lunged  on  with  nose  almost  at  knee 
Until  the  water,  four  feet  of  flood  stage 
Lapping  the  tree  trunks,  cut  the  roadway.     Ben 
Lashed  his  horse  ahead  for  a  clearer  view 
To  where  the  rough  stream  struck  his  saddle  skirts, 
Saw  the  brown  current  ruffled  by  the  wind 
Eace  in  mid-channel,  where  strongly  quartering, 
Old  Molly's  head  outstretched  was  swimming  brave, 
And  Bill  showed  head  and  shoulders.     Then  came 

hail 

Like  bullets,  and  the  spurts  of  water  rose 
Blinding.    When  Molly  reached  the  other  side  — 
She  hit  the  landing  fair,  Ben  said,  the  bank 
In  other  places  is  too  steep  and  high,— 
He  saw  the  saddle  was  empty. 

We  heard  next  day, 
It  was  nearly  dark  when  Molly,  riderless, 
Came  trotting  in  at  Turner 's.     Little  Ruth 
On  watch  at  the  window  glimpsed  her  in  the  rain, 
Eushed  breathless  to  the  barn  and  breathless  back 
To  her  bedridden  mother,  and  out  once  more 
To  the  nearest  neighbor's  house  a  mile  away. 


[39] 


Past  midnight  when  they  took  him  out  at  the  dam 
Seven  miles  below.    There,  in  the  lantern  light, 
One  moment  ere  they  carried  him  in,  I  saw 
Him  lying  on  the  cold  wet  grass  with  eyes 
Wide  open  up  to  the  beating  rain. 

You  see, 
Bill  was  my  age,  my  playmate.    What  I  felt  — 

It  was  last  fall  the  county  built  the  bridge. 


[40] 


TEN  CENTS  A  BUSHEL 

The  level  sunrise  brings  a  simple  glory 
To  hoarfrost  in  November.     Brilliance  soft 
Lives  in  the  buffalo  grass  of  prairie  spaces, 
Lives  in  the  gray  of  weathering  tassel-top 
On  the  dun  rows  of  corn  as  in  the  field 
The  husker  starts  and  stops  his  patient  team. 
Above  the  jangle  of  neckyoke,  clatter  of  stalk 
On  rattling  wagon,  thud  of  the  flung  ear, 
His  voice  is  masterful. 

With  awkward  vigor, 

Over  the  rough  and  frozen  ground  he  stumps, 
Tearing  the  corn  from  heavy  husks  that  rasp 
Through  glove  and  finger-cot  to  fray  the  flesh. 
A  rhythm  rules  the  hands,  the  jerking  arm, 
No  muscle  wincing  as  the  silk-fringed  ears 
Fly  true,  thump  lightly  on  the  towering  board 
Hour  after  hour.     At  noon  the  well-heaped  wagon 
Creeps  groaning  to  the  stackyard.    Steadily 
The  farmer  bends  and  rises  heaving  weight 
Of  yellow  corn  to  roll  from  the  shoulder-slope 
Of  an  uncribbed  mountain.     The  fields  have  blessed 

the  tiller, 
And  corn  is  king. 

To  market  one  day's  drive, 
The  price  ten  cents  a  bushel.    'Tis  sturdily  up 
And  down  the  five  bad  hills ;  and  wearily  home 

[41] 


At  dusk  from  the  long,  long  miles ;  three  trips  a  week 
Is  all  a  team  can  stand. 

Corn  moulds  and  rots; 
The  kitchen  fire  is  fed  with  yellow  ears 
Till  the  house  reeks,  and  all  the  doors  fly  wide 
To  free  the  odor.    Yet  to  market,  King, 
To  pay  the  notes  and  the  three  per  cent,  a  month. 


[42] 


THREE  PER  CENT.  A  MONTH 

Soft  April  sunshine  sweetens  all  the  world, 
Yes,  even  the  county-town  with  smells  of  spring; 
And  life  is  busy  where  the  green  blades  shoot 
Through  last  year's  matted  grasses,  and  crisp  leaves 
At  mid-forenoon  light  up  the  little  maples 
Set  pioneering  in  the  square's  raw  sod. 

Across  the  three  blocks  of  untidy  street, 

Thirty  low  structures  skirmish  with  their  mates 

In  naked  staring.     At  one  windowed  box 

Some  twelve  feet  square,  team,  wagon,  driver  stand ; 

The  farmer  in  gray  jeans,  form  unrelaxed, 

And  face  without  a  mask,  trouble  writ  large. 

The  open  door  slowly  emits  a  man 

Knee-sprung,  with  hunching  shoulders,  wrinkly  neck, 

And  a  beaked  and  bulbous  face  with  narrowing  eyes, 

To  note  for  the  mortgage  Billy's  three  white  feet, 

And  Molly's  star  in  forehead, —  sixteen  hands, 

Weight  over  eleven-fifty, —  and  their  ages, 

Eight  years  and  ten. 

The  farmer  follows  in; 

Stands  downcast,  watching  what  a  nervous  frown 
Pursues  the  scratching  pen  on  the  chattel  form. 
Now  speaks  a  throaty  voice : 


[43] 


"At  three  per  cent., 

Four  months,  twelve  dollars, —  and  leaves  eighty- 
eight. 
And  you'll  have  wheat  to  sell  when  the  note  is  due." 

In  the  sun  the  farmer  straightens,  mounts  his  seat. 

How  listlessly  the  wagon  rattles  off 

Through  April  sunshine  and  the  smells  of  spring. 


[44] 


MEANWHILE 

The  August  sun  had  still  two  hours  of  sky 
When  the  white  flag  a-flutter  from  the  house 
Signalled  him  in  to  find  his  wife  at  watch 
At  the  boy's  bed.     He  laid  his  calloused  hand 
Lightly  on  that  soft  face  now  fever  flushed. 
"  Much  worse, "  she  said. 

"Yes,  much  worse.    I'll  ride  Jeff 
Cross-country,  try  to  borrow  a  saddle  horse 
At  Campbell's.     If  the  doctor  is  at  home  — 
Get  there  by  one,  to-night,  and  home  again 
In  the  morning,  maybe  eight,  at  most  by  nine. ' ' 
His  rough  lips  touched  the  boy  who  moaned  and 
stirred. 

The  sweating  plough-horse  changed  from  jolting  trot 

To  clumsy  gallop,  soon  was  winded,  fell 

Back  to  a  walk,  gained  breath  and  galloped  on. 

At  Campbell's  ranch  few  words.    They  learned  his 

need, 

Saddled  the  pony,  promised  to  relay 
The  doctor's  team  in  the  morning.     It  was  ride. 

When  sunset  came  the  man  was  galloping 

On  gentle  prairie.     Soon  he  dropped  from  the  ridge, 

Picking  a  way  down  canyon  banks  to  follow 

In  the  chill  dusk  of  the  draw  a  winding  mile ; 

Then  stiff  ascent  and  upland  track.     The  sky 

[45] 


Afar  off  held  its  tender  sunset  hues, 

Slow  fading.     One  by  one  the  big  white  stars 

Budded  and  blossomed.     Sometimes  prairie  owls 

Gave  chuckling  notes  and  made  dim  fluttering. 

The  balm  of  cooling  dews  healed  all  the  air, 

And  ripening  grass  was  fragrant,  and  late  flowers, 

While  from  the  wheeling  stars  a  gentle  glow 

Fell  on  the  prairies  like  a  luminous  veil. 

The  vast  plain's  prayer  was  answered  utterly. 

As  the  dusk  gathered  in  the  little  room 
The  woman  still  could  see  the  pillow  white, 
And  the  child's  tousled  hair  in  outline  dark 
About  his  face.    He  broke  from  out  his  sleep 
Babbling  of  strange  wild  fancies ;  hardly  knew 
At  times,  his  name,  her  kindness.     Lest  the  dark 
Loose  more  disorder  in  his  wits,  she  brought 
A  lighted  lamp  and  sang  old  ballad  songs 
In  a  soft  voice  that  won  him  ease  again, 
And  quiet  breathings.    She  could  hear  the  clock 
Lag  noisily,  and  from  the  distant  draws 
The  shrill  wail  of  the  coyote,  and  close  by 
The  creaking  misery  of  some  cricket-thing. 
Minutes  seemed  hours.     She  would  try  to  read. 
She  got  her  Bible,  but  the  tears  came  fast. 
Try  praying :  surely  there  is  help  in  prayer 
That  the  boy  should  recover,  that  her  man 
Might  find  the  doctor  ready.     She  can  see 
As  in  a  living  vision  the  sunshine, 


[46] 


The  doctor 's  rattling  buggy  racing  up 
In  time. 

In  time  ?    Thus  praying,  a  slight  noise 
Led  her  eyes  to  the  door.     She  saw  it  move, 
Open,  and  a  strange,  dirty  face  looked  in 
Bristling  with  thickets  of  wild,  brush-like  beard. 
How  her  heart  did  beat!       She  did  not  rise  nor 

scream, 

But  with  a  finger  at  her  lip,  said,  "Hush. 
My  boy  is  sick,  out  of  his  head,  indeed, 
And  must  not  see  you.     It  might  make  him  die. 
So  leave  us.    Maybe  you  are  hungry.    Look 
In  the  cupboard,  you  will  find  some  bread  and  meat, 
And  coffee  on  the  stove.     Go,  wash  and  eat. " 
Came  a  low  "Thank  ye,"  and  the  door  went  shut. 
She  turned  to  where  the  clock  hands  pointed  ten. 
There  would  be  minutes  while  the  tramp  would  eat, — 
This  outcast  fifty  miles  from  the  grading  camps 
Meant  anything.    She  could  not  think  nor  move, 
A  chill  so  numbed  her,  weakening  every  pulse. 
But  something  somehow  steadied  all  her  tone 
When  the  door  opened  once  more,  and  the  voice 
Asked,  "Is  there  only  you!" 

1 1  My  husband 's  gone 

For  the  doctor,  and  should  be  here  even  now. 
Hush,  the  boy's  waking.     Go  to  the  pump,  and  bring 
Cold  water  for  the  headcloths.    Put  the  bucket 


[47] 


Upon  the  table.     In  the  shed  you  will  find 
Fresh  hay  and  blankets." 

He  was  gone.     Once  more 
The  sweet  voice  crooning  low  the  ballad  tune 
Without  a  tremble  or  any  sign  of  fear 
Mastered  the  boy's  wild  fancies,  brought  him  rest. 
She  listened  to  the  clock,  and  hours  went  by ; 
She  looked  out  to  the  stars,  and  hours  went  by ; 
At  last  a  grayness,  light  grew,  dawn  increased, — 
In  two  more  hours.    At  nine  o'clock  they  came 
In  time  and  happily. 

How  like  a  tale, 

Or  a  heart-breaking  dream  the  afterwards ! 
But  while  death's  presence  from  the  noiseless  dark 
Saturates  all  the  air  of  some  child's  room 
Where  the  mother  prays  for  one  more  breath  un 
harmed  — 

Meanwhile  —  how  measure  her  agony  of  fear? 
How  ease  the  watching  of  her  wide-stretched  eyes? 


[48] 


THE  CHURCH 
I 

The  blinding  July  sun  at  ten  o'clock 

Glares  on  the  white  walls  of  the  little  church, — 

The  shingles  silver-gray,  the  shutters  green, 

Sunflowers  man-high  in  bloom  against  the  wall, — 

And  glares  on  dingy  wagons  trailed  by  dust, 

Slow  jolting  to  the  platform  at  the  door. 

Women  alight  and  enter,  while  the  men 

Tie  sweating  teams  to  the  much  gnawed  hitching- 

posts. 

How  drowsily  the  horses  stamp  at  flies ! 
The  landscape  wavers  in  the  shimmering  heat. 

Come  in  from  the  strong  sunlight.     The  pine  pews 
Are  filled  with  settlers.     Men  with  grizzled  beards, 
And  faces  weathered  rough  by  sun  and  wind  - 
Wind  that  would  wear  down  granite  —  listless  stand, 
Awkwardly  easing  muscles  now  relaxed 
Longer  than  is  their  use.     The  women  move 
Graceful  and  gracious,  whether  pale  or  tanned, 
Thin,  nervous,  or  in  rosy  health.     Their  eyes 
Are  bright,  and  bearing  cheerful.     Least  at  ease 
Are  growing  girls  and  boys.     Welcomes  go  round, 
And  gossips  buzz  until  the  organ  wails 
The  slow,  sad  measures  of  the  opening  hymn. 


[49] 


II 


Beside  the  open  window,  dreamily, 

A  sunflower  pokes  its  stiff  and  oily  head 

Droned  over  by  a  hairy  bumblebee. 

An  awkward  boy  sits  gazing ;  does  not  hear 

Or  text  or  sermon ;  only  sees  the  flower 

Nod  in  the  breeze,  and  finds  the  pew  grow  hard, 

While  muscles  twitch  and  ache  for  liberty. 

A  little  church ;  the  settlers  come  for  miles. 

Some  few,  unhearing,  sit  in  selfish  dreams; 

For  life  is  vilely  mingled,  sweetly  mixed, 

Scanty  or  bounteous  in  vital  force ; 

But  here  the  most  are  really  worshippers 

Seeking  in  fellowship  a  sympathy 

With  God.     Their  simple  faces  plainly  show 

What  feelings  stir  the  heart,  for  hard  looks  melt, 

And  thin,  worn  wretchedness  in  garb  grotesque 

Is  eased  of  uglinesses  while  it  feeds 

On  love  and  hope.     This  meager  hour  may  lift 

Some  grovelling  face  to  see  the  blessed  sky; 

Master  a  soul,  and  yield  it  back  to  life 

Tempered  against  the  evil  days  to  be. 

A  little  thing,  this  church?    Eemove  its  roots, 
Ossa  on  Pelion  would  not  fill  the  pit. 


[50] 


The  Neighborhood 


HAVE  YOU  AN  EYE 

Have  you  an  eye  for  the  trails,  the  trails, 

The  old  mark  and  the  new! 
What  scurried  here,  what  loitered  there, 

In  the  dust  and  in  the  dew? 

Have  you  an  eye  for  the  beaten  track, 

The  old  hoof  and  the  young? 
Come  name  me  the  drivers  of  yesterday, 

Sing  me  the  songs  they  sung. 

0,  was  it  a  schooner  last  went  by, 
And  where  will  it  ford  the  stream  ? 

Where  will  it  halt  in  the  early  dusk, 
And  wiiere  will  the  camp-fire  gleam? 

They  used  to  take  the  shortest  cut 

The  cattle  trails  had  made; 
Get  down  the  hill  by  the  easy  slope 

To  the  water  and  the  shade. 

But  it's  barbed  wire  fence,  and  section  line, 

And  kill-horse-travel  now; 
Scoot  you  down  the  canyon  bank, — • 

The  old  road's  under  plough. 

Have  you  an  eye  for  the  laden  wheel, 

The  worn  tire  or  the  new? 
Or  the  sign  of  the  prairie  pony's  hoof 

Was  never  trimmed  for  shoe? 

[55] 


0  little  by-path  and  big  highway, — 

Alas,  your  lives  are  done! 
The  freighter's  track  is  a  weed-grown  ditch 

Points  to  the  setting  sun. 

The  marks  are  faint  and  rain  will  fall, 

The  lore  is  hard  to  learn. 
0  heart,  what  ghosts  would  follow  the  road 

If  the  old  years  might  return. 


[•56] 


THE  RIDGE  FAEM 

The  ridge  is  open  to  all  moody  weather : 
The  bruisings  of  the  blizzard  leave  it  numb ; 
From  the  scorched  south  the  waves  swim  over,  over, 
Tireless ;  late  afterglow  brings  stars  and  dews 
Like  motherly  caresses ;  and  black  clouds 
Deep  bellowing  lash  its  face  with  gusty  rain. 

From  the  crest  Allen's  soddy  won  a  view 
Of  wide  slopes  rich  with  grasses  brown  and  gray, 
And  scattered  little  fields,  and  far-spaced  groups 
Of  mud-brown  dots  that  mark  a  fellow  farm, — 
Two  miles  the  nearest.     Yet  on  calm  days,  smoke, 
From  some  deep  wrinkle  rising,  promised  plain 
A  nearer  neighbor. 

Two  rooms,  Allen's  house. 
Yellow  clay  hillocked  the  convenient  cave; 
Bound  the  sod  stable  crouched  the  cribs  and  stacks 
Girt  with  a  barbed  wire  fence,  and  over  all 
Stood  sentinel  the  windmill. 

Allen's  wife 

Found  loneliness  the  lord  of  this  great  plain: 
Impalpable,  a  spirit  serpent  wise; 
Thin  shadows  in  the  daylight;  in  the  dark 
A  misty  lurker  marching  o'er  the  ridge 
From  his  wild  canyon  fastness.     He  rules  thought, 
Bids  the  ear  listen,  the  eye  watch  and  weary, 

[57] 


While  the  strained  nerve  pleads  that  it  is  not  eased 
By  the  querulous  sighs,  nor  by  that  whistling  drone 
Like  to  the  far-off  wail  of  long  lost  souls 
Eolled  dull  and  thin,  the  voices  of  the  wind 
Waving  the  green  grass,  waving  still  the  gray. 

Her  life  was  blunt  with  sameness:  house  and  hens 
And  garden  and  the  wind's  voice.     Few  and  prized, 
The  trips  to  town,  to  church,  the  visit  changed, 
Grew  to  misfit  proportions.     Was  she  frayed? 
'Twas  not  with  toil.     Her  body  was  depressed 
By  what  wore  down  her  mind.     The  livelong  day, 
Except  at  meal  time,  was  her  husband  gone 
About  his  labors.     At  the  first  she  sang 
To  dull  her  mood,  but  this  grew  rare  and  rare; 
Her  voice  forewent  its  tune,  she  scarcely  hummed; 
Her  set  eyes  found  in  fixed  melancholy 
The  lingering  patches  of  the  snow  in  March 
And  the  autumnal  drifts  of  goldenrod 
Dappling  the  prairie,  while  from  listless  hands 
Her  sewing  fell,  and  in  the  silences 
A  cricket's  chirping  shook  with  pain  the  nerves 
That  had  been  fearless.     Then  she  longed  to  be 
Where  children's  prattle  once  might  ease  her  ears 
And  children's  faces  feed  her  hungry  eyes. 

Her  husband  noted  how  the  songs  were  stilled; 
Was  troubled  over  the  unvarying  gaze, 
The  lines  about  the  mouth,  and  the  head  poised 
Like  one  whose  body  lifts  a  grievous  weight, 

[58] 


Yet  may  not  ease  its  burden.     The  last  year 
His  counsel  that  she  visit  her  old  home 
The  winter  through  while  work  was  slack  had  been 
Denied  for  his  sake.     Now  the  care  for  health, 
Urged  firmly,  won  assent.     Assent  once  made, 
She  brightened  visibly,  thought  to  recall 
Her  word  of  going.     Allen  would  not  hear. 
He  knew  how  stark  a  spell  the  prairie  wrought 
In  league  with  loneliness  quite  to  disrank 
Wits,  fancies,  memory. 

His  final  word 

At  the  station,  "  Bring  some  cousin  back  with  you 
Kidnap  an  aunt  or  grandmother.     Goodbye." 

It  was  late  February  with  the  sun 

Glinting  from  the  fresh  snow  when  Allen  stood 

Again  at  the  frowsy  little  station.     All 

The  futile  uglinesses  of  the  place 

Wore  shining  beauty. 

When  the  noisy  wheels 

Ceased  grinding,  Mollie  led  down  by  the  hand 
A  rosy  boy  of  seven,  diffident 
To  Allen's  hearty  welcome.     Very  soon 
The  farmer's  wagon  lumbered  out  of  town 
With  easy  joltings  while  the  drowsy  lad 
On  straw  and  comforts  gathered  childish  dreams. 
Then  Mollie  filled  in  the  particulars 
Her  letters  had  but  sketched.     To  her  home  town 

[59] 


Came  boys  and  girls  some  fifty  in  a  group, 
Orphans  from  New  York  City.     Those  in  charge 
Granted  them  only  unto  chosen  folk 
On  surety  of  good  home  and  loving  care. 
And  little  Robert's  father  and  mother,  both 
Fine  people,  had  been  dead  for  two  whole  years. 
Then  he  lived  with  an  aunt,  and  she  was  dead, 
Scarcely  five  months.     There  was  no  property. 
So  the  home-finders  took  him  in  their  charge. 
1  'He  reads  and  writes,  and  ciphers  cleverly. 
Plenty  of  spirit,  mischief  too,  and  fun. 
He  wakes  at  morning  with  a  charming  smile, 
And  when  he  puts  his  arms  about  your  neck, 
And  warms  you  in  the  laughter  of  his  eyes, 
You  can't  refuse  his  askings.     Lively?    Yes. 
A  healthy  growing  boy,  and  only  once 
Found  crying  over  memories." 

Spring  waxed  glad, 

And  summer's  bounteous  promises  increased. 
The  house  was  full  of  singing,  gay  with  notes 
Of  childish  laughter.     Now  the  little  lad 
Knew  which  end  first  a  cow  or  horse  would  rise ; 
Had  watched  their  noisy  browsings  while  the  dew 
Glinted  so  rich  under  the  level  sun; 
Had  given  a  name  to  every  colt  and  calf 
As  it  moved  staggering  on  awkward  legs 
With  eyes  too  young  for  wonder.     He  could  ride 
The  big,  mouse-colored  mare,  shrug  as  she  might; 
Could  hold  the  lines ;  now  chasing  in  the  field 

[60] 


The  chittering  ground-squirrel,  now  in  the  shade 
Of  the  house  gable  busy  with  mud  pies, 
Or  stick  and  knife  and  string  and  board  and  nail. 
For  him  life  held  surprises :  he  had  come 
Into  a  wondrous  land,  and  every  day 
Gladdened  with  gazings. 

Loneliness,  the  lurker, 
Impalpable,  untiring,  serpent  wise, 
Scared  by  the  rippling  of  a  childish  laugh 
Skulks  into  canyon  fastnesses,  and  scouts 
For  easier  victims.     He  has  lost  the  ridge. 


[61] 


IN  THE  CANYON 

This  is  her  diary.     Come  with  me  to  view 
The  canyon;  think  you  see  it  as  of  old 
When  Martha  lived,  and  hear  the  simple  tale. 


Down  the  steep,  rough  slope  for  a  hundred  yards, 
The  stiff,  brown  bunch-grass  swishing  round  our 

knees, 

Until  the  shelving  bank  abruptly  falls 
To  the  canyon  floor  divided  by  a  ditch 
0  'ergrown  with  ironweeds,  horsemint,  currant  bush, 
And  clumps  of  the  dwarf  cherry  with  black  fruit 
Thick  clustering  among  the  leathery  leaves. 
The  uneven  canyon  jogging  right  and  left, 
Brown  slopes  to  east,  and  west,  and  north,  and  south, 
Forms  a  deep  cup ;  one  notch  to  the  southeast 
Eeveals,  miles  off,  the  buildings  of  a  farm. 

Such  view  and  skyline  for  the  sodded  mound 
Pierced  by  the  rusting  stovepipe.    The  roof's  front 
O'erbrows  a  window  and  an  ample  passage 
Cut  smooth  in  the  clay  and  cleanly  swept. 

'Tis  noon. 

In  the  open  door  against  the  inner  dusk 
Stands  Martha  gazing;   her  blue   sunbonnet 
Is  pressed  back,  and  reveals  coarse,  graying  hair 
Over  a  face  dealt  harshly  with  by  sun 

[62] 


And  wind.     She  looks  right  down  the  canyon  bed 
Past  rope-and-pulley  well,  chokecherry  patch 
Beyond  the  bean  poles,  and  the  withered  vines, 
And  yellowing  sweet  corn,  to  the  stretch  of  the  slope, 
The  notch,  and  the  buildings. 

With  long  weary  moods 

This  childless  widow  faced  the  lonesome  months 
Here  in  the  canyon,  for  the  nearest  soddy 
Lay  out  of  sight  fully  a  mile  away. 
She  said  once  to  this  neighbor,  shyness  melting 
Under  kindly  eyes:     "You  say  it's  half  a  visit 
To  see  folk  pass  on  the  road.    You  touch  their  lives. 
The  who,  and  when,  and  why,  fill  up  your  heart 
With  friendly  thoughts  and  hopes.     I  chose  a  spot 
In  which  the  dugout  could  be  cheaply  made. 
My  well  is  shallower  by  a  hundred  feet 
Than  any  on  the  ridge,  and  easily  works 
With  rope  and  pulley.     I  don't  mind  coarse  clothes, 
Nor  gardening  with  the  hoe,  nor  guarding  fowls 
Against  hawk,  coyote,  —  but  to  be  alone ! 
If  I  could  see  your  house,  and  you  watch  mine!" 
She  paused  with  a  sigh,  her  parted  lips  grew  firm. 
"It's  only  four  more  years." 

Some  weeks  had  passed, 

She  came  again,  resumed  the  thread  abruptly 
In  some  such  words  as  these: 

"My  dugout  room 
Is  very  lonesome.    Let  your  child  come  stay 

[63] 


The  night  with  me.     I  long  to  hear  a  voice, 

Be  it  chatter  ne'er  so  trifling.     I  make  pets 

Of  the  fowls,  hold  foolish  talk  with  my  dozy  horse, 

Have  named  the  seven  jackrabbits  that  play 

On  the  slope  in  front.     Beasts  have  no  words  to 

give 

In  answer,  and  tasks  fail  that  filled  the  time. 
The  curious  quilt  is  finished;  there  remain 
No  scraps  for  working. " 

Now  the  child  has  come, 

Tossing  her  soft  brown  curls  from  eager  eyes, 
To  stand  by  Martha  folded  in  her  arm. 
The  mother  made  assent. 

Folk  seldom  thought 

Of  Martha 's  struggle,  for  she  did  not  give 
Her  burdens  unto  others.     She  took  charge 
Of  her  course,  and  moved  with  delicate  steps  to  meet 
At  the  surprising  turns  of  the  stony  path 
The  unpitying  spies  of  fate.     And  while  she  groped 
In  silence  on,  lone  hour  and  hour  might  sap 
The  health  of  body  and  soul.     The  neighbors  saw 
Her  hands  hang  listless,  and  her  shoulders  sag, 
The  tan  forsake  her  cheek,  languor  eat  through 
The  strength  from  every  muscle.     Like  a  vine 
Struck  at  the  root  by  beetles,  she  drooped  fast. 
Good  gossips  sensed  her  weakness,  visited, 
Brought  delicacies,  gave  companionship; 
Saw  her  eyes  lose  the  strange  bewildered  lights, 

[64] 


And  that  she  breathed  once  more  free  from  shudder 
ing  dreams 

Waking  her  in  the  midnight's  stifling  black; 
And  that  she  ceased  from  muttering  to  herself. 

One  woman  urged,  "Come,  Martha,  stay  with  us 
A  week,  a  month !" 

"Thank  you,  I  cannot  come. 
I  should  be  in  your  way,  —  my  fowls,  my  horse ! 
Besides, —  " 

"Why,  sell  your  chickens,  bring  the  horse ! 
I  worry  when  I  think  of  you  alone. 
Suppose,  —  of  course,  it's  no  affair  of  mine. 
You  must  get  strength." 

"Indeed,  you  are  most  kind! 
Thank  you,  I  cannot  come.     I'll  manage  here." 
No  querulous  note  from  the  quiet  voice;  the  head 
Held  a  rebellious  poise.    Now  visits  ceased 
Because  work  drove  the  neighbor  women  hard. 

On  Martha's  loneliness  the  dreams  returned, 
Flooded  her  mind,  and  overwashed   and  drowned 
All  its  defences.     This  the  diary  tells, 
Not  all  coherently.     Its  simple  words 
Say  much,  suggest  to  understanding  folk 
The  height  and  weight  of  woe.     Its  leaves  were 
found 

[65] 


When  the  nearest  neighbor  woman  taking  thought 
How  Martha  was  not  seen  this  fortnight  space 
Let  drop  her  tasks,  half  ran  to  the  canyon  slope, 
And  breathless  down.     Loose  tumble-weeds  con 
fused 
The  passageway  to  the  door.     She  knocked;  she 

called ; 

She  knew  the  secret  trick  to  lift  the  bar, 
Opened  and  peered.     Disorder  everywhere. 
The  farthest  corner  showed  a  barricade 
Of  washstand,  chair,  and  woodbox.     Behind  this, 
Crumpled  uneasily  upon  the  floor, 
The  woman  lay.     Profusion  of  gray  hair 
Half  hid  the  terror  wrinkled  in  her  face 
And  a-stare  in  her  wide  blue  eyes. — 

This  diary 

Is  intimate  and  not  for  careless  gaze. 
Its  first  page  the  first  Sunday  on  her  claim. 
Much  reminiscence  in  the  early  leaves. 
Married  two  years,  her  husband  died.     She  tells 
Her  fear  of  snakes,  and  how  a  flood  in  the  ditch 
Heaps  weed-drift  on  the  bushes. 

Here  she  writes : 
"Gray  clouds,  cold  rain.     Whatever  light  comes 

through 

My  one  small  window  soaks  into  dirt  walls, 
Leaving  me  in  a  shivering  dusk." 


[66] 


"The  men 

Plastered  my  walls  with  native  lime  —  rough  coat, 
Dull  gray.    I  tacked  white  muslin  all  above 
To  the  rafters;  it  keeps  dirt  from  sifting  down, 
And  it  makes  the  dugout  lighter.    I'll  not  choke 
On  rainy  days  with  darkness." 

Farther  on — 

' '  Six  months  to-day.    The  snow  was  dazzling  white, 
And  the  sun  gave  a  blindness.     The  horse  drank 
A  single  bucket  and  shivered  with  the  cold. 
I  got  three  eggs ;  two  leghorns  froze  their  combs. 
Warmer  to-night.     My  monthly  trip  to  town 
To-morrow  if  it's  fine.    To  Ashby's  place 
By  sunrise,  —  there  get  warm,  and  leave  my  horse. 
Less  chilly  in  his  wagon.     Home  by  dark, — 
Or  moonlight,  —  lantern  ready.    I  dread  the  cold  — 
Long  to  see  people.     I'll  borrow  on  the  hill 
The  county  paper,  bring  the  feeble  stuff, 
The  idle  precinct  locals  and  bought  praise 
Of  patent  curealls  home  to  read.     Thin  food, — 
It  sours  on  the  mind.     I  hate  and  fear  this  place ; 
Such  stillness  lies  upon  it  all  day  long! 
And  with  the  dusk,  day's  quiet  has  increased, 
The  little  lamp  calls  all  the  shadows  up 
From  stove,  chair,  table,  woodbox,  vivifies 
The  lines  in  the  checked  curtain  o'er  the  shelves 
That  hold  the  dishes.    I  move  to  the  door, — " 


[67] 


One  can  imagine  how  she  wrote  this  page, 
The  bent  thin  shoulders,  and  the  firm  sweet  mouth, 
Stillness,  —  the  lingering  whisper  of  her  pen 
With  the  shadows  listening, — 

"I  move  to  the  door. 

Such  moonlight  on  the  snow,  shadows  and  stars! 
Out  here  the  stars  are  always  near  at  hand. 
The  air  is  stirless,  fearing  the  least  noise. 
I  wonder  that  my  heart  can  beat  so  loud, 
I  long  to  free  my  senses  with  a  shriek. 
What  if  —  f    Oh !    Oh !  the  coyote >s  cry, 
That  wildly  shrilling  ululation  bursts 
Shattering  the  nerves.     And  now  his  eager  mates 
Multiply  wailing  answers  from  the  slope. 
The  cries  die  off.  —  To-morrow  to  the  town." 

" Midsummer's  hand  is  heavy.     Heat  and  light 

And  wind  that  never  ceases.     If  my  life 

Were  like  a  man's  I  might  go  striding  free 

To  fresh  adventures,  hardying  my  soul, 

Choosing  my  ground  of  vantage.    When  I  came, 

This  was  adventure ;  it  is  penance  now. 

Days  die  in  turn.     But  I  have  set  my  steps 

To  this  path,  and  I  keep  it,  spite  of  sun, 

And  wind,  and  dust,  and  thirst,  or  beasts  that  growl, 

Or  brutes  that  bristle. 


[68] 


"0,  to  be  away! 

Lake  water,  trees,  the  wood-thrush!     In  four 
years. " 

"My  cherry  patch  is  white  with  spires  of  bloom, 
I  smell  the  piquant  sweetness.     April  sun 
Makes  my  fowls  noisy.     Tiny  bands  of  green 
Cross  the  black  garden,  and  I  should  be  glad, 
But  loneliness  is  heavy.     Just  five  years 
Last  night  since  the  fire.     Shall  I  have  again 
Books,  music,  place  in  life?     0  tale  of  days, 
Pinching  and  scraping,  buried  in  this  hole ! 
I  write  no  letters.     They  reveal  my  mind 
Drugged  by  this  solitude,  beaten  too  low, 
Quiescent,  not  rebellious  save  in  nerves 
Acutely  sensitive,  bidding  me  hide 
From  pity.     All  alone,  yes,  all  alone! 
Three  years,  three  months  yet.     I  say  to  myself 
At  morn,  seven  hours  till  noon,  then  seven  more, 
Night;  two  more  hours,  and  then  to  bed 
In  hope  to  sleep.     Shall  I  dawdle,  spin  work  out? 
Then  sit  to  wear  the  dragging  day  quite  through, 
Counting  my  breathings  seven  thousand  times? 
This  diary  helps.     That's  why  I  write  so  much, 
And  give  it  pains  for  the  most  part. ' ' 

As  we  turn 

Through  many  a  leaf,  the  neat  and  even  form 
Of  the  word  begins  to  waver. 


[69] 


(.  t 


I  have  laughed! 
The  little  girl  who  stayed  with  me  last  night 
Was  full  of  talk  and  glee.     My  dugout  room 
Had  never  heard  such  merriment,  —  and  I, — 
He  called  my  laughter  silvery  —  long  ago, 
As  in  another  world.  —  How  good  to  laugh !" 

"Why  not  give  up!     I  lack  the  power  to  choose 

Another  project.    0,  for  some  strong  will 

To  establish  me.    I  have  read  my  one  book  over 

Story  by  story,  promise  after  promise. 

I  need  help  now.     If  God  is  in  this  world, 

He  has  forgot  the  corner  where  I  lie, 

And  no  one  cares.    And  yet,  the  clouds,  the  stars!" 

"Better  to  write  than  mutter  to  myself; 

The  page  bears  moody  words  my  tongue  might  bring 

Into  the  open;  and  when  tears  would  flow, 

Or  terror  crush,  I  clutch  the  pen  and  write. " 

"Yes,  I  can  love  my  neighbors.     They  have  been 
Loving  to  me.     And  when  my  health  returns 
I  will  throw  off  timidity,  reserve, 
Try  mixing  with  their  gayety. ' ' 

"A  road 

Bears  witness  men  have  passed,  makes  promises 
That  men  will  come.    If  I  lived  by  a  road, — " 


[70] 


"The  heat  of  August  burns  the  bunch-grass  brown; 
It  makes  my  body  fail.     I  hadn't  breath 
To  climb  the  canyon  slope,  and  found  no  taste 
For  my  own  cooking.     Early  then  to  bed. 
Through  all  the  shimmering  quiet  of  the  dusk 
I  lay  in  utter  loneliness.     The  wind 
Went  on  in  long  drawn  sighs.     At  last  a  doze, 
Then  dreams,  the  mind  indulging  fancy's  whim 
And  terror's   utmost  threatening.     Habit  this. 
My  senses  need  relief.     I  wake,  and  watch 
Through  the  window  the  dark  sky  soak  up  the  light 
Of  coming  day,  deep  blue,  then  silver  blue, 
Then  all  day's  splendor.     Opening  the  door, 
I  look  on  the  chaste  grasses,  see  the  dew 
In  shine  and  shadow,  feel  the  morning  breeze 
Tighten  my  nerves,  and  win  a  kind  of  strength. 
Yet  not  such  force  as  when  from  healthful  sleep 
And  quiet  dreams  of  friends,  the  body  wakes 
Purified  as  by  music's  happiest  streams 
From  all  the  dregs  of  yesterday. 

"I  write 

In  this  high  mood  one  moment.     How  days  wear ! 
Nights  wear,  months  wear !     I  never  can  grow  used 
To  loneliness.     This  canyon  seems  a  trap 
Closing  me  in.    The  weight  of  pent-up  moods 
Must  find  some  floodways  of  escape  or  burst 
Explosively  the  barriers.     Sunset  time 
Brings  causeless  tears,  and  while  the  brief  dusk 
glooms, 

[71] 


I  shake  with  sobbings.     When  my  heart  is  hushed, 

Sleep  holds  aloof.     I  mutter  to  myself, 

'  'Tis  two  years  more,  ten  months,  eleven  days'." 


" 


I  hear  the  migrant  plover  whistling  high. 
Five  hawks  wheel  screaming  down  the  dirty  wind. 
Had  I  but  wings  —  " 

The  other  lines  are  blank. 
A  little  further  on  three  leaves  are  gone. 
The  final  page  is  crumpled,  slightly  torn, 
Shows  haliings,  fresh  departures;  words  begin 
Precisely,  snarl  themselves. 

"The  door  still  holds. 

They  have  besieged  me  two  days  and  two  nights. 
Water,  —  I  fear  to  go  —  the  ditch  —  the  well  — 
The  cherry  patch.  —  In  the  shed  the  biggest  one 
Got  in  the  horse.    I  chopped  him.    Night  — 
Six  more  —  tap  window  —  beat  the  stovepipe  — 
Will  break  in.  —  One  said  —  if  —  open  the  door  — 
I  could  go  home,  and  —  .    No  escape,  —  afraid  ! 
Four  nights  awake.     If  I  were  but  a  child 
Sleeping  in  mother's  arms  !    Oh  hush  !    I  hear  — 
God  in  Heaven,  how  they  howl  and  yell.     Lord  God, 
Help!    Help!    Help!    Help!     Help!    Help!    Why 
won't  you  help?" 


[72] 


The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the  rose. 
Its  grasses  cover  graves,  its  canyons  bury 
In  deep  forgetfulness. 

Down  the  steep  slope, 
With  the  brown  bunchgrass  swishing  round  your 

knees. 

The  rusty  stovepipe  rises  through  a  beard 
Of  starveling  herbage.     A  mat  of  tumble-weeds 
In  the  doorway  is  o'erhung  with  bluestem  blades; 
They  blot  the  path  to  the  well.     The  garden  place 
Bristles  with  ragweed;  at  one  corner  spire 
Red  and  white  hollyhocks,  and  the  dying  souls 
Of  damask  roses  drench  the  sultry  noon. 


[73] 


EOAD  AND  PATH 

0,  road  and  path,  and  path  and  road, 

They  write  the  story  plain; 
To  the  picnic  grounds,  to  the  little  church, 

And  for  water,  wood,  and  grain. 

They  point  to  the  friend,  and  the  dearest  friend, 

The  gossip,  the  recluse ; 
To  the  cloud  of  grief,  and  the  star  of  love, 

And  all  life's  human  use. 

There 's  a  rain-washed  mark  leads  up  the  hill 

Because  two  boys  were  chums ; 
And  a  bridle  path  steals  down  the  draw,  — 

Romance  in  its  season  comes. 

0,  fennel  and  chickweed  fill  the  ruts 

In  the  sunny  buffalo  grass ; 
For  Andy  Marsh  and  his  cousin  Bill 

Look  sidewise  when  they  pass. 

'Twas  a  well  worn  track  to  Heathering's  farm, 

But  the  courting 's  over  now; 
Mary  and  Belle  chose  husbands  well, 

And  Jane  the  veil  and  the  vow. 

To  Connor's  house  is  a  welcome  road, 
And  jollity  is  ringing; 


[74] 


O,  the  open  door  and  the  dancing-floor, 
The  laughter  and  the  singing ! 

There  are  highways  born,  the  old  roads  die,  — 

Can  you  read  what  once  they  said? 
From  the  rain-worn  ditch,  and  the  sunflower  clump, 

And  the  needs  of  folk  long  dead? 


[75] 


THE  NEIGHBORHOOD 

Once  more   'twas  spring!     The  meadow-lark  gave 

note 

About  Ms  grassy  nest,  and  builders  hummed 
Old  songs  while  sod  on  sod  their  houses  rose. 
Through  widening  strips  of  field  all  rusty-black, 
The  first  fine  blades  of  corn  sprang  laughingly,  — 
And  men  had  joy  of  neighbors.    Fellowship 
Budded  and  blossomed  into  a  schoolhouse-church 
Just  where  the  Carico  swings  a  wooded  arm 
Across  wide  meadows  to  the  upland  slope. 
Twenty-five  settlers  brought  their  families 
And  built  as  brothers  build.    Log  after  log, 
Strong  hand  to  hand  was  helpful.    Last,  a  feast 
Summoned  the  hearty  workers. 

All  roads  meet 
At  the  schoolhouse-church;  it  gives  to  Fairview 

Eidge 

A  rallying  sign,  a  name,  a  bond.    Upgrows, 
Enveloping  this  jangling  human  group, 
The  personality  of  neighborhood. 

Who  and  whence  were  the  neighbors?    Illinois 
Sent  grimy  miners  from  the  smothering  pits 
To  steep  themselves  in  sunshine;  and  thin  clerks 
Came  from  great  cities,  asking  health  and  strength 
From  the  open  prairie ;  renters  from  New  York 
And  Pennsylvania ;  the  Georgia  cracker ; 

[76] 


Old-soldier  farmers  out  of  Iowa ; 

Hoe-wielders  from  the  Indiana  clay; 

A  sunburnt  plainsman  who  had  fought  the  tribes ; 

Lumberjacks  from  the  camps  in  Michigan ; 

Soft-voiced  plantation-lords  —  aristocrats 

Unbowed  by  loss  of  slaves ;  hill-billy  fiddlers 

Full  of  the  music  of  the  mountain  brooks ; 

A  gold-seeker  who  dropped  the  battered  sledge ; 

A  faro  dealer  with  long  curly  hair 

And  soft  and  guileless  eye ;  gray  schoolteachers ; 

Carpenters  out  of  cities  in  the  east; 

Broken-down  cowboys  singing  of  the  range; 

A  widower  dentist,  spoken  of  as  "Doc", 

And  called  about  to  heal  the  countryside ; 

A  bankrupt  grocer;  men  from  over  sea, 

Danes,  Germans,  Swedes,  and  Irish,  marrying  wit 

To  words  misfashioned. 

As  a  group,  these  men 

Scarce  matched  in  vigor  and  resource  the  first 
Old  pioneers  who  set  adventurous  feet 
In  lonely  wildernesses.     Straggled  in 
The  empty-handed,  weary  with  long  years 
Of  gainless  toil ;  and  the  land-hungry  came 
Like  thirsty  cattle  to  the  shadowy  pools. 
On  hand  and  knee,  young  strength  and  old  goodwill 
Oombed  through  the  matted  grass  for  corner  stones ; 
And  many  a  bold-heart  brought  his  family, 
Their  faces  brightening  like  prairie  flowers, 
To  own  a  home. 

[77] 


Once  more  the  world  was  new. 
It  sunned  itself  in  kindness  and  good  will : 
Old  women's  gossip,  chats  b  yroad  and  door; 
Singings  and  frolics ;  weddings,  funerals ; 
While  love  strode  in  to  lighten  evil  days, 
And  souls  grew  large  with  human  sympathy. 
If  eyes  in  solitary  jealousies 
Burned,  or  men  in  their  natural  desires 
Should  buzz  like  hornets  to  the  tune  of  spite, 
Sad  neighbors  they. 

A  good  world  in  the  main. 
Jack  borrowed  here  a  horse  or  lent  a  plough; 
Saw  pipes  relighted  while  his  summery  mood 
Tongued  his  life  story  into  friendly  ears. 
Bess  heard  loud  hoofbeats  in  the  deepening  dusk 
Bearing  an  eager  lover,  or  she  saw 
The  hushed  room,  the  white-aproned  woman,  all 
A  mother's  generosity  of  love 
Answering  six  months '  acquaintance. 

A  new  world ! 

Once  more  began  for  worthy  and  unfit 
The  shaking  of  the  sieve  that  sorts  to  size. 
Men  held  up  heads  to  a  society 
Expectant  'of  backbone.    Who  won  the  place 
Of  underling  had  just  himself  to  thank, 
Blame  as  he  might  his  neighbors  and  his  wife. 
Chance  could  not  keep  men  equal ;  it  could  give 
More  strength  to  all,  —  yet  unto  him  that  hath  — . 

[78] 


Spring  on  the  land,  and  meadow-larks  a-singing ! 
On  Fairview  Bidge,  the  joy  of  human  neighbors,  — 
And  boys  and  girls  with  wonderful  May  weather 
In  brave  young  hearts !     Spring  on  the  blossoming 
land! 


[79] 


THE  BANDED 

Who  are  the  banded!    Gather  from  the  four 

Broad  winds  one  hundred  strangers  varying 

In  tongue,  age,  disposition;  set  them  down 

On  the  wild  prairie  where  a  neighbor's  help 

Is  priceless.    Each  has  left  an  ordered  world 

Where  every  wheel  rolls  on  in  its  old  rut 

To  the  expected  stopping  place,  and  men 

Make  law  of  local  patterns,  local  custom. 

How  shall  these  hundred  settlers  find  adjustment 

To  their  unsettled  neighbors,  and  to  thoughts 

Novel  and  startling,  thoughts  which  fostering  years 

May  nourish  to  strange  fruitage?     'Tis  a  problem 

Too  large  for  human  powers,  infinite 

In  nice  complexities. 

The  spirit  of  life 

Will  draw  this  dusk  confusion  into  form, 
Will  shape  the  self  of  the  neighborhood  wherein, 
Like  wheat  straws  in  the  bundle,  men  are  bound, 
And  press  upon  each  other,  bringing  help 
Or  harm  not  to  be  measured.    Hate,  and  love, 
And  hateful  love,  and  loving  hate,  and  low 
Passions  that  bind  man  to  his  brother  beast, 
And  wild  sweet  hopes,  and  airy  fancies  lifted 
Like  a  winged  song  half  way  from  man  to  God, 
Must  merge  into  the  spirit  of  the  group 
Which   pipes   for   dancers,   mourns   to   those   that 
mourn, 

[80] 


Trains  one  wolfhound  to  charge  the  bristling  pack, 
Pampers  another  into  poodle  form, 
And  for  a  sulky  brute  lays  a  rod  in  brine. 

Brutes  may  object  to  rods.    Suppose  the  cur 

When  threatened,  snarls,  when  beaten,  howls  and 
bites ; 

Dogs,  children,  wives,  and  neighbors  swell  the  clam 
or, - 

Bow-wow  and  boo-hoo,  Fairview  Ridge  eruptive. 

It's  easier  to  start  than  end  a  fracas, 
And  status  quo  may  seem  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thought  itself,  demanding  that  each  bristle 
Shall  lie  sleek  on  the  dog,  and  not  a  tremor 
Stir  in  the  extinct  volcano. 

Here  the  banded 

Fashion  the  fate  of  man.    Who  prays  for  blessing 
Shall  ask  for  health,  a  clean  soul,  and  good  neigh 
bors. 


[81] 


NATHAN  BBIGGS 

Through  two  small  windows  sunshine  slanted  in 
To  die  upon  the  splintery  schoolroom  floor, 
While  the  October  gusts  whipped  dirt  and  weeds 
Against  the  rough-hewn  logs,  or  through  loose  chinks 
Sang,  keying  children's  nerves  to  concert  pitch. 

At  eleven  fell  a  loud  vehement  fit 
Of  knocking  at  the  door.    Little  Ernest  plumped 
Out  of  his  seat,  fell  flat,  and  the  children  stared 
While  the  teacher  turned  the  knob.     There  stood 

Nate  Briggs 

With  face  well  smeared  with  dust,  a  bloody  nose, 
Torn  overalls,  a  cudgel  in  his  hand, 
And  eyes  on  fire  with  fury,  and  to  her 
"Good  morning,  Mr.   Briggs,"   showed   teeth  and 

barked, 

"You  whipped  my  little  Willie  yesterday, 
Because  that  cussed  Jones  girl  pulled  his  hair. 
God  damn  the  Joneses!     By  the  holy  golden "  — 

swift, 
The  door  went  shut  in  his  face  and  the  key  was 

turned. 

At  noon  the  teacher  wrote,  and  Arthur  Flynn 
Galloped  to  the  road  and  waited  for  the  stage. 
In  three  days  came  the  upshot.    Nathan  Briggs 
Sailed  gloriously  past  the  country  store,  — 

[82] 


Top  buggy,  driver  with  a  spanking  team,  — 
To  trudge  back,  two  days  later,  coat  on  arm, 
Afoot,  the  thirty  dusty  miles  from  town. 

A  thresher's  outfit  close  beside  the  road 
Had  halted  work  to  mend  the  driving  belt. 
Began  the  grinning: 

"  H  'lo  Nate,  where  Ve  you  been  ? ' ' 
"Sold  your  horse  and  buggy?  Didn't  like  to  ride?" 
"You  ought  to  have  made  the  sheriff  fetch  you 

back." 
"What's  the  fine  for  cussin'  schoolma'ams?"    "Old 

man  Jones 

Says  he  wants  to  lick  you  agin ;  says  he  'd  be  glad 
To  pay  once  more  for  his  cattle  in  your  corn 
For  the  pleasure  of  fightin '. "    "  Ha-ha !    Ha-ha-ha ! 
We  ain't  no  schoolma'ams.    You  can't  frighten  us 
By  shakin'  your  fist  and  cursin'." 

Nathan  Briggs 
Like  a  footsore  dog  toiled  home.    And  glance,  and 

gibe, 

And  grins  like  lashes  fell  where  the  bruisings  ached. 
How  to  set  right  his  world  out-puzzled  him. 
Apologize,  atone?    Such  acts  require 
Eomantic  fineness,  power  to  undertake, 
And  will  that  stoops  with  a  shoulder-load  of  blame 
Along  the  public  road  on  a  holiday. 
It  was  his  wish  that  people  should  forget. 

[83] 


In  spite  of  curse  and  clod,  humiliations 

Dogged  every  step  to  make  him  hide  his  head. 

If  his  slow  thoughts  fermenting  bitterly 

Did  not  burst  out,  some  fostering  spirit  saved  him. 

He  set  no  foot  off  his  farm  for  the  next  six  months ; 

Indeed,  he  thought  of  moving  farther  west. 

But  folk  need  neighbors,  time  cures  every  woe, 

So  this  fault  found  oblivion.    Once  a  year, 

Perhaps,  some  store-box  winker  may  refer 

To  the  stylish  buggy-ride  of  Nathan  Briggs. 

His  young  son  had  to  bear  the  father 's  crimes 
At  school,  poor  tearful  champion  of  a  love 
Already  gibbeted.    The  teacher's  care 
Guarded  him  when  it  might.    And  Mrs.  Briggs 
Who  had  a  reputation  for  currant  jell 
Sent  her  a  dozen  glasses  of  the  best. 


[84] 


MISTER  DWIGGINS 

Bill  Dwiggins  had  been  Billy  thirty  years, 

A  boyish  name  which  piqued  his  clever  wife, 

As  if  her  man  were  ticketed  light-weight 

Out  here  as  in  Ohio.    He  had  land, 

A  team,  and  stock.    Let  him  be  Mister  now, 

Take  office  as  assessor,  constable, 

Or  school  director,  and  by  slow  degrees 

Grow  into  larger  duties.    It  may  be 

She  had  excuse,  had  suffered  in  old  days 

The  patronage  of  those  whose  men  had  hired 

Good-natured,  easy  Billy. 

Mister  Dwiggins 

Was  huge,  flat-bodied,  moved  with  the  swinging  gait 
Of  a  slow,  steady  ox.    I've  seen  him  toil 
At  knotty  problems,  tilted  in  his  chair, 
In  strained  attention  drawing  on  his  pipe,  — 
Bristly  mustache,  arched  brows,  uplifted  eye. 
Now  blessed  be  good  counsel ! 

His  wife  helped. 

The  slight,  shawled  figure  with  the  sunny  face 
Found  welcome  at  the  Ashbys ;  lively  chat 
The  Browers  held  with  her ;  and  she  talked  around 
With  Butterpaugh,  Embree,  and  Himmelblau, 
Casey,  Flynn,  Boyd,  O'Reilley,  Mclntyre, 
Oltrogge,  Davis,  Matzybon,  and  Trinque, 
Fox,  Martin,  Marsh,  King,  Anderegg,  and  more, 

[85] 


They  should  uphold  the  interests  of  the  Bidge 
By  starting  a  literary. 

Pettigrew 

Helped  by  objecting.    Four  or  five  gave  ear 
To  his  hoarse  voice  on  mail-day  as  he  sat 
On  the  puncheon  bench  outside,  with  big  hat  slouch 
ing 

To  drooping  shoulders.    Thin,  unsmiling  lips 
Moved  in  that  bony  face,  as  steeped  in  sourness 
As  if  his  soul  were  lined  with  colic-cramp. 
1 '  Worthless  performance  —  crude !    Hoary  debate 
On  Fire  and  Water.    Let  the  children  speak 
At  Christmas,  Decoration,  last  of  school. 
Paper  bound  to  be  bad;  learns  younger  folk 
To  disrespect  their  elders.    And  remember, 
'For  every  idle  word  —  in  that  last  day.'  " 

Casey  was  holding  match  to  his  dudeen, 
Delaying  answer;  from  the  inner  room 
A  woman's  tones:  "I'm  glad  you  told  me,  Janet, 
How  to  make  that  melon  pickle;  Mister  Dwiggins 
Has  praised  it  over  and  over. ' '    Then,  in  the  door, 
Black  lisle  gloves  found  adjustment,  and  a  smile 
Sentenced  the  culprit : 

' '  0,  there  will  be  faults  — 
Our  faults  which  make  us  humble.    But  I  like 
To  work  with  those  who  put  their  whole  hearts  in,  — 
And  the  spirit  of  the  neighborhood,  communion 
In  sympathy,  and  in  laughter  —  ' : 

[86] 


"Vanity,  woman! 

Folly  and  sin  increase,  while  we  pursue 
Idle  frivolity." 

' '  Come  and  make  that  speech 
At  the  literary!    'Thoughts,  shut  up,  want  air, 
And  spoil  like  bales  unopened  to  the  sun.' 

"  'Let  the  women  keep  a  silence  in  the  churches!' 

* '  Nor  laugh  with  one  another.    I  pity  his  wife,  — 
Married  to  such  a  bully !    But  we  '11  sing 
Together,  Janet,  nor  mind  if  pessimists 
Wear  scratchy  woollens. " 

Deep,  unbroken  silence ; 

Dazed  by  the  indelicate  word,  Jim  Pettigrew 
Kept  glum  eyes  on  the  ground.  His  auditors 
Moved  chuckling  forth  with  gossip  for  their  wives. 

Standing  room  only,  that  November  night ; 

The  aisles  were  full,  the  windows.    Cheering  rocked 

The  schoolhouse  when  Bill  Dwiggins,  flushed  with 

pride, 

As  president-elect  ended  his  speech,  - 
There  are  who  hint  a  woman  wrote  it  for  him,  — 
And  introduced  the  dentist  to  orate 
On  Aaron  Burr.    The  genial  worthy  stepped 
Square  to  mid-platform,  gestured  right  and  left  — 


[87] 


A  college  medal  glittering  on  his  coat  — 
Boomed  in  brave  language : 

"Lo,  the  bea-uteous 
Aurora  had  arisen  in  the  majestic  east, 
And  shed  long  garnet  beams  across  the  surface 
Of  the  waters  rippling  in  the  morning  breeze 
Like  a  sea  of  broken  mirrors,  and  reflecting 
The  shattered  scintillations.    Hudson's  cliffs 
With  violets  were  sprinkled. ' '    Fifteen  minutes 
Of  artificial  flowers.    His  applause 
Was  nigh  an  uproar. 

Now  two  sisters  sang; 
Their  voices  overflowed  the  little  room, 
The  bell-like  alto  lifting  hopeless  grief 
Till  many  eyes  had  tears.    Next,  children  spoke 
Breitmann  and  Carleton  ballads. 


A  recess. 

Young  lads  rushed  out  for  moonlit  pullaway ; 
The  organ  drew  the  singers:   Vacant  Chair, 
The  Little  Old  Sod  Shanty,  Billy  Boy, 
Tenting  To-night,  Sweet  Afton,  Rosy  Nell, 
And  Rocking  on  the  Billows  had  their  turns; 
Then  business  meeting. 


[88] 


Truly,  a  success, 

This  literary !    Mister  Dwiggins  won 
The  place  of  constable  two  successive  years. 
Next  fall  he  will  be  sheriff  if  he  minds 
The  counsel  of  Mrs.  Dwiggins,  —  so  men  say; 
They  call  him  Billy  yet,  but  change  the  tone. 


[89] 


THE  CLAIM-JUMPER 


AT  HER  DUGOUT 

Because  it's  cut  in  the  canyon  bank,  you  looked 
For  a  rabbit  hole  with  a  window  and  a  door? 
Come  in;  the  supper's  on  the  stove.    You  see 
Rag  carpet,  bright  cretonne  for  the  shelves.     The 

lounge 

And  the  table  once  were  boxes.    In  September 
Goldenrod  is  my  favorite,  and  I've  filled 
Both  vases.    I  shall  have  a  handsome  soddy 
After  I  prove  up  and  pay  off  my  debts ; 
Saving  is  slow  for  schoolma'ams. 

You  will  pardon 

My  going  on  to  spread  the  cloth,  I  know, 
For  you'll  be  hungry.    0,  that  mound  of  sod 
Off  yonder  on  the  hill?    That  used  to  be 
The  house  that  Jarvis  built  to  jump  my  claim 
While  I  was  teaching  on  the  Frenchman  Fork, 
Forty  miles  off.    The  neighbors  tore  it  down. 
I  didn't  know!    So  terrible  a  chance 
For  death  or  cripplings !    People  feared  him,  too. 
Maybe  in  part  his  looks.    He  stooped  by  habit, 
As  tall  men  stoop  in  following  the  plough. 


[90] 


From  Ms  sloping  shoulders  hung  great  length  of 

arms 

Ending  in  knobby  fingers.    His  Adam's  apple 
Made  an  elbow  joint  in  trying  to  lift  straight 
His  shaggy,  rough-hewn  head.    Wide  flaring  ears, 
Under  the  slouch  of  a  big  white  hat,  and  eyes 
Bounder  than  common,  hard  bright  blue,  like  mar 
bles,  — 

Set,  starey  eyes.    Maybe  that's  what  scared  people, 
Or  just  that  he  was  a  jumper.    Someone  came 
At  night  and  shot  three  bullets  through  the  stove 
pipe 

On  my  roof.    Yes,  I  was  here.  --  The  biscuit  need 
Another  minute,  and  the  baked  potatoes 
Are  done.    I  like  the  smell.  —  May  have  been  Jarvis, 
As  they  said,  or  maybe  not.    With  a  needlegun 
He  could  pick  an  egg  from  a  post  at  a  hundred  yards. 
The  law!    I  was  at  law.    Law  isn't  everything. 
Too  much  set  rules,  delays,  and  costs,  and  fees. 

You  see,  I  had  a  right  to  earn  my  living. 
I  had  to !    I  wish  the  government  official 
Who  says  continuous  residence  just  means, 
'Sleep  on  your  claim  once  every  thirty  days 
Or  lose  your  right,  -       I  wish  he  had  to  teach 
Forty  miles  from  his  dugout  all  the  winter, 
Drive  all  day  Saturday  up  and  down  canyons 
So  steep  the  buckboard's  all  the  team  can  manage,  — • 
And  walking  safer,  —  and  in  the  drifts,  or  the  wind 
On  the  open  prairie, —  spend  one  night  in  the  dugout, 

[91] 


And  Sunday  driving  back.     This  year  my  school- 
house 
Is  only  six  miles  off,  and  there's  no  Jarvis. 

I'll  tell  you  all  about  him  after  supper. 
How  do  you  have  your  teal    One  lump,  or  two? 
I  like  them  crisp  and  brown  and  piping  hot. 
My  cousin  sent  this  tea  from  New  York  City. 


[92] 


II 

THE  JUMPER 

'Twas  brisk  October,  and  the  sun  was  down 

When  Mrs.  Kinsey  bringing  in  some  wood 

Heard  a  rattling  wagon  pass  on  to  the  draw; 

Its  clatter  increased,  ended  in  a  thud,  - 

Silence  —  then  muffled  calls.    She  rushed  to  the  road. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  slope  a  wagon  box 

Lay  upside  down,  cries  came  from  underneath. 

The  team,  still  fastened  to  the  running  gears, 

Stood  quiet. 

"Are  you  hurt?" 

' '  No,  not  much  hurt. 
Liftoff  the  box! " 

"And  you,  who  may  you  be!" 
"I'mJarvis.    Help  me  out!" 

Mrs.  Kinsey  paused. 

"No,  Mr.  Jarvis,  you  have  jailed  yourself. 
I  leave  you.    When  my  husband  comes,  he  may 
Help  you  if  he  likes. ' ' 

"But  woman,  0  my  God!" 


[93] 


"I  help  no  thief  to  steal  a  woman 's  claim !" 
i  i  By  law  —  help  me,  my  shoulder  hurts. ' ' 

"The  law! 

And  her  in  debt  establishing  her  rights ! 
Anyway,  I  can't  lift  it."    She  paid  no  heed 
To  his  shouts  while  she  unhooked  and  tied  his  team. 

The  first  soft  moonlight  mellowed  all  the  draw 

When  farmer  Kinsey  tilted  the  big  box, 

And  Jarvis  crawled  out.    Silently  the  two 

Set  all  to  rights.    If  Jarvis 's  left  arm 

Was  painful,  he  could  use  it  as  he  pushed 

The  singletree  with  his  leg,  and  hooked  the  tugs. 

Kinsey 's  slow  voice  was  vibrant.    "Better  stay  here, 

To-night." 

' '  Thank  you,  I  can 't.    My  pigs  and  cow 
Need  food  and  water." 

"Well,  you  better  stay. 

Yes,  true,  my  wife  won't  have  you  in  the  house. 
But  you  can  sleep  in  the  shed.    Wait,  listen  to  me ! 
Stay  here!" 

' '  You  think  there 's  danger  at  my  place. ' ' 
The  shoulders  lifted,  and  the  wide  mouth  gave 
Tones  harsh  and  rigorous  as  granite  stone. 
"I've  had  their  threats.  Some  will  go  home  in  boxes. 
I  won't  be  scared  nor  bullied,  not  by  fifty." 

[94] 


"  Jarvis,  I  think  you  know  that  if  you  shoot, 
The  boys  will  make  a  sieve  of  you.    Otherwise, 
They'll  have  a  frolic  with  feathers  and  rail. 
I'm  not  your  friend;  perhaps  I  run  a  risk. 
But  you  can  sleep  in  the  hay. ' ' 

"One  minute,  Kinsey! 
As  to  the  lie  that  says  I  went  at  night 
Shooting  at  that  girl's  dugout,  —  I'm  no  such  fool. 
If  I  could  find  who  did  it  I  would  make  him 
Eat  the  dirt  of  the  stable.    First  I  knew 
Was  when  the  store  refused  me  credit.    The  neigh 
borhood 

Is  ready  to  mob  me,  and  I've  got  to  kill 
Or  be  killed,  and  it's  God  damn  tough  on  me!" 
He  spoke  from  the  wagon,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed 
Where  the  rough  track  climbed  the  steep  bank  ahead. 

The  horses  trotted.    Jarvis  let  his  thought 

Move  with  the  w^agon  's  rattling  tune.    Such  a  group 

Would  not  be  ready  to  start  till  after  ten, 

Or  maybe  midnight.    Everyone  in  it,  of  course. 

Claim  jumpers  have  no  friends.    These  men  would 

find 

His  rifle  held  sixteen  bullets.    He  would  be  glad 
At  last  to  have  it  out.    For  all  these  months 
He  had  stood  them  off.     And  yet,  what  end,  what 

end? 


[95] 


He  looked  about.    Perhaps  his  last  of  nights. 
A  gentle  breeze,  such  moonlight,  and  the  stars 
Pouring  soft  splendor.    All  the  prairie  rolled 
As  in  enchanted  beauty.    Why  remain 
To  see  the  harshness,  ugliness,  the  day 
Must  soon  bring  back  for  him?    The  children  hid 
If  he  passed  on  the  road.    Men  would  not  speak; 
And  women  would  not  speak  but  only  look. 
His  hide  was  not  so  tough  but  he  could  feel,  — 
This  Kinsey  woman,  now !  — 

Well,  when  he  came, 

The  claims  were  taken,  and  no  good  land  left 
Unless  by  jumping.    Once  you  jump,  you  must 
Go  on  to  win,  to  justify  yourself 
In  the  teeth  of  all  who  fight  you. 

A  way  out  ? 

Was  it  like  his  father's  garden?    Crabgrass  grew; 
His  father  only  cursed,  and  next  year's  planting 
Was  choked  the  sooner  with  the  help  of  sandburs. 
Lay  hand  to  the  roots !  The  worst  is  not  the  fighting ; 
But  standing  alone,  with  no  one  to  give  help, 
To  laugh  with  you,  to  think  in  sympathy, 
More  than  with  a  steer  goaded  on  to  a  cattle  car. 
Life  is  too  short.    Unless  there's  more  in  the  world 
Than  law  and  guns  — .    Is  there  no  happier  spot 
With  friends,  and  neighbors,  and  companionship, 
And  laughter,  and  a  home  ?    His  horses  love  him, 
Will  follow  with  dumb  nosings ;  and  to-night 

[96] 


It  seems  the  prairie  loves  him  while  the  moon 
Touching  its  beauty  tenderly,  - 

Bosh!    The  fall 

Had  jolted  worse  than  he  thought,  for  his  shoulder 
ached. 

The  pigs  reproached  him  as  he  reached  the  yard ; 
The  cow  called  softly.    Once  their  wants  relieved 
He  threw  in  the  wagon  some  small  movables, 
And  drove  off  the  back  way  and  down  the  draw. 


[97] 


Ill 

JARVIS  WAITED 

The  moon  was  down  when  a  knock  at  Kinsey's  door 
Brought  the  wakeful  man  of  the  house.    "Come  in! 

Come  in! 
What  has  happened  ?    Are  you  hurt  1 ' ' 

' '  0  no,  not  hurt. 

I'm  going  away  —  must  leave  my  cow  and  pigs; 
And  farming  tools  and  junk  about  the  place. 
Will  you  look  after  it?    I'll  give  ten  per  cent. 
Of  what  they  sell  for." 

"Sure,  sure  I  will. 
Never  mind  the  per  cent.    What's  your  address!" 

"Don't  know.     I'll  write.     Some  place  to  make  a 

start, 

A  home  in  the  world.    A  man  can  fight,  and  fight, 
But  he  needs  a  rest.    I  saw  the  mob  a-tearing 
My  house  all  down,  I  heard  their  oaths  and  abuse, 
And  didn't  shoot,  but,  —  well,  good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

The  voice  of  Mrs.  Kinsey  sounded  now : 

"Best  make  a  writing  so  people  will  understand 

What  you  are  doing,  Kinsey.    And  Kinsey,  say ! 

[98] 


Tell  Jarvis  to  wait.    I'll  fix  a  basket  up. 

Some  eggs  and  fresh  baked  bread  and  a  pie  and 

jelly. 

This  camping  out  by  the  road  is  a  kind  of  hardship 
When  a  man  does  the  cooking." 

Doubly  harsh,  — 

Kindness  from  those  who  cursed  you.    Yet  I've  seen 
Before  an  opening  door  the  trembling  eyes 
Of  a  homeless  hound;  and  something  of  that  image 
Takes  shape  when  I  recall  the  lamplight  glow 
Flung  through  the  door  and  framed  in  by  the  dark 
On  that  gaunt  figure.    What  could  be  the  stress 
Of  feeling  in  the  outcast  though  his  hide 
Be  thick  and  coarse !    Not  on  sod  walls  alone 
The  banded  struck. 

In  silence  Jarvis  waited. 


[99] 


JOE  TAYLOR 

September  afternoon.    The  farmers '  teams 
In  Belford  all  along  the  straggling  street 
Stamped  drowsily  at  flies.    The  rough  board  walk 
Sounded  from  bank  to  corner  store  where  stood 
Joe  Taylor  in  blue  denims,  wide  straw  hat, 
Tall,  burly,  ruddy.    His  clear  eyes  looked  hard 
At  a  wagon  trailed  by  dust  in  its  noisy  rush 
From  the  livery.    The  blacksnake  swung,  the  horses 
Leaped  on  the  bits,  the  driver's  comrade  gripped 
The  spring  seat,  while  a  huge  man  stood  behind, 
Yelling  hoarse  words.    Traffic  was  paralyzed. 
A  staring  hush  fell  over  sunbonnets, 
Bare  heads  out  of  the  stores,  and  childish  curls 
Lifted  to  see. 

' l  Any  man  in  this  town ! 
I'll  give  him  fifty  dollars  if  he  licks  me!" 

From  the  street  end  the  wagon  made  return, 

The  charioteering  bully  bellowing 

Insults  profane.     "No  man?     All  cowards'?     Fifty 

dollars ! 

You  bob-tailed,  weasel-eyed,  scared  puppies,  you ! 
You  stinking  bastards !" 

"The  town  marshal,  where  1" 
Asked  women.    That  defender  lay  dead  drunk 
At  the  livery  stable.    Bearded  men  felt  arms 

[100] 


With  heavy  muscles.    Such  a  strutter's  comb 
Demanded  cutting. 

Back  the  charioteer 

Swooped  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  pouring  abuse 
And  filth  upon  all  heads.    Joe  halted  him, 
Lifting  a  big  right  hand.    "  I  do  not  live 
In  Belford,  but  I'll  fight  you." 

"Where's  your  home!" 
1 '  On  Fairview  Eidge. ' ' 

Down  sat  the  fighting  man, 
And  in  the  slowly  moving  wagon  rose 
His  comrade  up  to  ring  a  bell,  and  shout, 
' '  Fi-i-ight !    On  the  creek  ba-n-nk ! ' ' 

First  the  hero's  car, 

Then  Joe  marched  sturdily,  while  men  and  boys, 
A  cavalcade  in  a  great  smoke  of  dust, 
Streamed  after.    From  the  sidewalk  one  high  voice 
Remonstrant,  —  "Joseph  Taylor,  if  your  wife 
Was  here,  she'd- 

Under  trees  a  grassy  plot, 
A  ring  of  faces,  little  jets  of  talk. 
"Three    men   last   week    at    Kearney."      "Nearly 

killed  - 
Bird  City."    "Ain't  got  nothing  over  Joe 

[101] 


In  size,  —  six  foot,  a  hundred  ninety. ' '    "  Odds  ? 
Don't  bet.     The  bruiser  is  profesh."    "Living  too 

fast.11 
" Young  bucks  get  mad."    "No  use,  Joe  can't  back 

out! 
You  get  a  dog  by  the  ears,  you  can't  let  go." 

Joe  made  no  sign  of  hearing ;  to  choice  of  gloves 
He  only  shook  his  head. 

"Your  cash,  my  lad. 

Only  twenty  dollars,  boy?    Don't  fool  with  me!" 
Contempt  blared  in  the  tone. 

"I  have  no  more. 

I  give  you  this  to  fight.    You  need  not  pay 
Me  anything  if  I  win. ' ' 

"You?    Win?    Ha-ha! 
Ha-ha!" 

"Then  fight  for  this!"    Joe's  bare  hand 

sounded 
Upon  the  boaster's  cheek. 

An  old-time  game 

Is  rough  and  tumble;  thus  wild  men  fought  beasts. 
Grip,  wrestle,  strike,  on  ground,  and  now  on  knee. 
Blows    fall    with    dull    sound,    muscles    swell    and 
stretch ; 

[102] 


Fighters  puff,  grunt,  and  sweat,  and  gather  dust ; 
The  hot,  moist  skin  slips  in  the  finger  clutch. 
With  nostrils  wide,  strained  eye,  and  bloody  face, 
Garments  in  shreds,  they  struggle  with  a  rage 
And  craft  and  will  beyond  the  power  of  brutes. 

Twenty  long  minutes  of  such  give  and  take, 

The  bully's  breath  came  scant.     Joe  pressed  him 

hard, 

And  wore  him  under,  and  struck  heavily 
Until  the  prizer  cried  —  "Enough." 

Joe  rose, 

Wiped  bloody  face,  drew  out  the  yellow  bill, 
Thrust  it  upon  the  speechless  one,  and  turned 
Back  to  the  village. 

Ruddy  sunset  gleams 
Fell  richly  all  about  Joe,  jogging  home 
With  empty  wagon,  musing  how  he  bought 
A  fight  with  money  borrowed  at  the  bank 
To  buy  seed  grain,  and  won  therefrom  an  eye 
Discolored,  and  a  lip  grotesquely  swollen, 
Bruisings  and  weariness.    "I  wonder  what 
My  wife  —  0,  I'm  a  fool !    But  how  explain? 
And  yet,  —  I  couldn  't  help  it  after  all. ' ' 


[103] 


THE  PAETY 


MOON-WORSHIP 

I  hear  them  singing  in  the  open  spaces 
The  old,  old  rites,  the  music  of  the  moon; 

The  rougher  and  the  sweeter  voices  blending 
To  lift  the  joyous  tune. 

I  see  them  dancing  in  the  open  spaces 

As  moonlit  nights  grow  long; 
Clasped  hands  and  circling  steps  and  charmed  faces. 

And  witchery  of  song. 

A  harmony  of  hearts  to  rule  the  singing 

As  loud  and  low  they  croon; 
I  see  them  dancing  in  the  open  spaces 

The  worship  of  the  moon. 


[104] 


THE  GATHERING 

Father  and  Mother  Lawrence,  the  boy  Joe, 
Lottie  and  Elsie,  all  were  full  of  life, 
And  fond  of  company.    Their  new  sod  house 
Boasted  four  rooms.     The  first  play-party  fell 
To  them  by  luck  and  privilege. 

That  night  gave 

A  full  moon  silvering  all  the  autumn  grass, 
Big  stars,  a  deep  sky,  and  the  fresh,  sweet  notes 
Of  young  folk  singing  as  the  wagons  rolled 
On  to  the  Lawrence  house. 

What  jollity 

Of  hearty  greeting !    How  the  spirit  of  mirth 
Beams  in  the  twinkling  eyes  of  Daddy  Lawrence ! 
I've  seen  him  laugh  among  the  harvest  help 
From  his  toes  upward,  his  plump  body  shaking, 
His  hair  one  breeze  of  merriment;  to-night 
His  round  and  ruddy  face  as  yet  but  smiles. 
Gracious  and  motherly  the  welcoming 
Of  Mrs.  Lawrence;  son  and  daughters  join 
Good  comradeship  with  a  fine  courtesy 
To  happy  guests.    Nell  Davis  trips  in  first, 
A  lively  blonde  with  nose  tip-tilted ;  clumps 
In  her  tow  a  bashful  youth  whose  shiny  face 
Displays  its  freckles  as  gooseberry  jam 

[105] 


Makes  show  of  seeds;  now  enters  Arabella, 

The  cowgirl  who  can  conquer  a  wild  pony; 

Sam  Violet,  conscious  of  his  first  mustache,  — 

With  him  his  sisters,  Ella,  Jessie,  just 

Arrived  last  week  from  Elgin,  Illinois, 

Eeady  of  laugh  and  word ;  three  giantesses, 

Blonde,  tanned,  the  Andersons;  they  till  the  fields, 

Having  no  brothers ;  then  the  bullet  heads 

And  round,  stiff  bodies  of  the  Baker  boys ; 

Lou  Silver's  coming  animates  the  room 

Like  living  music ;  'tis  a  gentle  face, 

As  delicate  as  a  flower,  Ann  Wilson  lifts 

In  greeting ;  Barney  Mclntyre  holds  high 

His  dark-curled  head ;  close  at  his  elbow  grins 

Jed  Butterpaugh  the  bashful;  comes  a  ripple 

Of  wholesome,  happy  girls,  Eose,  Bessie,  Jane, 

And  Margaret;  then  three  Brandstetter  brothers, 

Ample  of  girth,  and  rusty  haired. 

The  house 

Grows  crowded,  guests  move  to  the  moonlit  grass, 
Where  laughters  rise,  and  merry  voices  chat 
In  lively  melody. 

Joe  Lawrence  calls, 

"Your  partners!     Form  the  lines  for  Old  Brass 
Wagon." 


[106] 


II 

THE  GAMES 

Luck  makes  him  head,  he  meets  it  pranksomely, — 
Dapper  Ulysses,  five  feet  in  his  boots, 
And  proud  as  Satan  of  a  black  mustache 
Would  grace  a  Spanish  pirate ;  half  a  hand 
In  the  wheat,  first  class  at  baking.    Buxom  Sue 
Towers  last  in  the  line  of  girls;   she  could  pitch 

bundles 

All  day  for  any  partner:  mirth  arises 
To  see  them  countering  between  the  ranks, 
First  shuttles  in  the  good  old  weaving  game, 
The  blithesome  maze  of  the  Virginia  reel : 

"Meet  half  way  to  your  best  liking, 
Meet  half  way  to  your  best  liking, 
Meet  half  way  to  your  best  liking, 
You  're  the  one,  my  darling ! 

"Lead  'er  up  an'  down  the  old  brass  wagon, 
Lead  'er  up  an'  down  the  old  brass  wagon, 
Lead  'er  up  an'  down  the  old  brass  wagon, 
You're  the  one,  my  darling! 

"Wheel  an'  turn  the  old  brass  wagon, 
Wheel  an'  turn  the  old  brass  wagon, 
Three  wheels  off  an'  the  axle  draggin', 
You're  the  one,  my  darling!" 

[107] 


The  seven  stanzas  near  monotony 

When  each  has  led  the  weaving.    Welcome  change 

Is  the  graceful  round  of  a  good  old  harvest  dance: 

"  0,  it  rains,  and  it  hails,  and  it's  cold  stormy 

weather ; 

In  comes  the  farmer,  drinking  up  cider. 
I'll  be  the  reaper  if  you'll  be  the  binder, 
I've  lost  my  true  love  and  I  cannot  find  her." 

They  race  through  Tansy  with  a  merry  speed 

Before  the  circle  spins  into  rollicking  rings 

In  the  whirls  of  " Three  by  three  with  a  polkay  0!" 

"0,  great  big  sheep  jumped  over  the  meetin' 

house, 

Over  the  meetin'  house,  over  the  meetin'  house, 
Great  big  sheep  jumped  over  the  meetin'  house, 
Down  in  Alabama ! ' ' 

Some  echo  rises  as  from  age-old  rites 
In  Oats,  Peas,  Beans  and  Barley.    Weevilly  Wheat 
Times  lightsome  dancers,  then,  a  flouting  song 
With  a  flower  for  the  girl,  a  gibe  to  tease  the  boy : 

"0,  now  we've  got  the  little  red  rose, 
The  little  red  rose,  the  little  red  rose; 
And  now  we  've  got  the  little  red  rose 
So  early  in  the  morning! 
Go  choose  you  out  a  partner, 
The  prettiest  you  can  find. 

[108] 


"And  now  we Ve  got  the  old  plough  horse, 
The  old  plough  horse,  the  old  plough  horse ;  — " 

Comes  Happy  Miller  with  its  round  of  shifts ; 
Then  Chase  the  Squirrel;  boys  and  girls  in  lines, 
With  the  head  couple  dancing  through  and  back : 

"Up  and  down  the  center  we  go, 
Up  and  down  the  center  we  go, 
Up  and  down  the  center  we  go 
This  cold  and  frosty  morning ! 

"Now's  the  time  to  chase  that  squirrel, 
Now's  the  time  to  chase  that  squirrel,  — " 

The  girl  runs  round  the  rank  of  girls,  the  boy 
Circles  at  speed  the  rank  of  boys  in  hope 
Of  sweet  reward  in  the  lane.    The  lads  take  space 
Lengthening  the  line  to  see  the  pursuer  puff : 

"Catch  her  and  kiss  her  if  you  can, — " 

And  he  may  catch  her  if  luck  favors  him, 
Otherwise,  —  he  is  chaffed  for  running  slow. 

Voices  need  rest.    Youth  turns  with  lively  relish 
To  coffee  and  fried  chicken,  rolls  and  cakes, 
Doughnuts  and  pies.    An  hour  of  chat  and  laughter; 
Then  the  cool  moon  may  spill  its  gracious  ease 


[109] 


On  what  might  else  seem  awkward,  while  the  space 
Lends  harmony  to  youthful  voices  blent 
In  folk-tunes  of  the  good  old  courtship  games, 
Where  dancing  is  the  maid,  romance  the  lady : 
Juniper  Tree,  We're  Marching  Round  the  Levee, 
Here  Comes  a  Loving  Couple,  Lazy  Mary, 
Then  the  lively  turns  of  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me, 
With,  Here  She  Stands,  and  a  partners'  march  for 
ending : 

"We  are  marching  down  to  old  Quebec, 
And  the  drums  are  loudly  beating; 
The  Americans  have  gained  the  day, 
And  the  British  are  retreating. 

"The  war's  all  o'er,  and  we'll  turn  back 
To  the  place  from  whence  we  started ; 
We  '11  open  the  ring,  and  choose  a  couple  in 
To  see  if  they'll  prove  true  hearted." 

The  moon  is  rolling  half-way  down  the  sky 
When  the  last  wagon  rumbles  to  the  road ; 
And  you  hear  Suwanee  River,  Old  Black  Joe, 
And  Annie  Laurie,  sweet  and  faint  and  far, 
Dying  in  silver  haze  along  the  hills. 

0  prairie  spaces,  joyous  boys  and  girls, 
Youth,  and  romance,  and  music  of  the  moon ! 


[110] 


THE  KEY 

He  turned  in  at  the  gate  and  asked  a  drink; 

Shabby,  but  neat  of  garment.    His  white  hat 

Drooped  over  friendly  eyes ;  his  face  was  clean, 

Ascetic.    Surly  Towser  wagged  to  greet 

His  coming,  and  my  timid  little  boy 

Smiled  him  a  welcome.    The  tramp's  easy  voice 

Came  slow  and  musical. 

"Have  you  a  need 

For  some  repairs  on  woodwork,  furniture? 
Yes!    Food  will  pay  me." 

His  lean  hands  were  deft 
Over  an  injury  the  walnut  desk 
Met  in  its  journey.    Pulsings  from  within, 
Some  charm  from  an  intensity  of  spirit, 
Marked  the  man  while  he  worked. 

He  laid  a  key 

On  the  cloth  by  his  plate,  and  bowed  his  head. 
Ending  the  meal  he  gently  spoke : 

"My  house, — 

A  four  room  house,  I  built  it  by  the  stream. 
The  woodthrush  sings,  the  quail  are  very  tame, 
And  nested  orioles  and  bluebirds  flit 
Where  the  wild  grape  is  matted  in  the  trees. 
Wild  flowers  nod,  and  the  untrodden  grass 

[in] 


Waves  in  the  soft  wind,  hearkening  the  while 
To  the  sweet  water  running.    Little  boy, 
You  can  come  to  my  house  and  bring  your  smile. 
I  thank  you  now.    The  food  was  very  good. 
Yes,  I  have  friends.    No  matter  for  their  names. 
This  is  my  key.    I  go  to  find  my  house. 
I  made  the  prettiest  furniture  for  it. 
Good-bye  to  you,  and  thank  you  once  again. ' ' 

His  sad  eyes  smiled  farewell;  he  took  the  road, 
A  lean  and  stooping  tramper  by  the  streams. 
The  key  seemed  like  a  symbol  from  such  quest 
As  mothers  old  romance.    His  limp,  subdued, 
Hinted  that  he  had  come  a  weary  way. 


[112] 


THE  DRIVER 

I 
AT  THE  POST-OFFICE 

It  was  a  gray,  midwinter  afternoon. 
A  noisy  wind  pursued  the  fine  hard  flakes 
Of  blinding  snow,  and  piled  sharp,  ridgy  drifts 
Where  swale  or  grass  gave  shelter.    The  front  room 
At  Fiddler's  house  held  loungers  waiting  mail. 
Over  the  checkerboard  hung  four  or  five; 
With  head  turned  down  and  nose  to  wall,  one  stooped 
In  the  dim  light  to  read  newspaper  print 
Pasted  upon  the  plaster.    Brady  moved 
From  the  ruddy  stove  to  the  window.  "Six  hours 
late." 

"He'll  come.    He's  Uncle  Sam's  man.    Pretty  slow 
Through  drifts.     He'll  stay  all  night,  and  travel 

Sunday 

To  make  two  trips  this  week. ' '    So  Fiddler  drawled, 
Thumping  a  cob  pipe  on  his  heavy  boot. 

With  fingers  upon  eyes,  the  man  at  the  wall 
Straightened  and  stretched.    "This  time  I  read  her 

through ! 

How  come  you  paste  that  paper  bottom  up, 
About  Guiteau  a-shooting  Garfield?    Gosh! 
A  man  can't  hold  the  sense." 

[113] 


"I'll  use  more  care 

Next  spring  when  I  repaper ;  these  are  yellow 
With  age  and  smoke. ' ' 

i  i  I  see  him  on  the  hill ! ' > 
Came  Brady 's  voice. 

"Bert,  fix  up,  take  his  team; 
He'll  be  nigh  froze,"  called  Fiddler  to  his  son. 
Out  of  the  buckboard  stiffly  climbed  the  man 
Wrapped  in  great  coat  and  scarf,  and  looming  tall 
Beside  his  ponies,  gently  freed  from  ice 
Their  eyes  and  mouths,  instructing  Bert  with  care 
Concerning  feed  and  water.    He  came  in 
While  Fiddler  sorted  mail,  and  stooping,  spread 
His  rough,  dark  hands  to  the  warmth.    Above  his 

beard 

His  cheeks  were  weather-dark;  a  great  scar  seamed 
His  forehead.    He  laughed  back  to  hearty  words 
From  men  who  had  come  miles  for  letters,  papers, 
And  now  moved  out  to  the  storm. 

At  dusk  our  fire 
Koared,  while  outside  through  creaking  trees,  the 

wind 
Exulted. 

"What's  your  route  like?" 

[114] 


' t  Up  this  creek, 

Cross  the  divide,  back  down  Old  Sandy.    Twice 
A  week,  about  a  hundred  forty  miles. 
Monotonous?    Most  men  know  little  road, 
Travel  on  fair  days.    I  have  shift  of  light 
And  weather  upon  changing  scenes.    This  stream 
Elbows  round  bluffs  that  shoulder  in  to  choke 
The  woods  and  the  valley.    Farther  up,  the  groves 
Of  willow,  ash,  and  elm  thin  out  to  a  line ; 
Beyond  the  headsprings,  lonely  cottonwoods 
Bulk  huge  above  the  plum  and  cherry  thickets ; 
Last,  buckberry  and  ironweed  fringe  the  ditch 
Until  the  canyon  ends:    On  the  high  divide 
The  sky  is  set  far  back,  and  the  prairie  runs 
For  miles  and  miles.    Your  eye  can  just  make  out 
On  clearest  days,  far  to  the  north,  the  crests 
Of  sandhills.    Now  head  down  the  other  creek. 
One  bit  of  road  there,  —  say  in  blossom  time,  — 
A  soft  wind  soaked  plumb  full  of  meadow  smells 
And  fluttering  the  leaves,  —  with  oriole, 
Brown  thrasher,  blackbird,  bluebird,  meadow-lark 
A-chirrup  and  a-trill,  —  one  lazy  fleece-cloud  — 
The  green  and  the  sunshine  —  I've  heard  about  a 

place, 
All  things  perfected:  there's  that  stretch  of  road. 

Of  course,  it  changes.    August  brings  a  drouth; 
The  dust  dries  in  the  sweat  upon  your  face. 
All  months  have  storms;  these  blizzards  are  the 
worst. 

[115] 


A  mile  to-day  is  plenty;  thirty  miles, 

The  frost  gets  into  the  marrow  of  your  bones, 

It  tires  your  blood  and  your  will.    Now  these  men 

here 

Wanted  their  mail,  expected  it ;  and  I,  — 
I  brought  it.    Driving  mail  is  hard  to  stop. 
When  the  contract  ends  you're  tempted  two  years 

more. 

Seven  years  at  seventy  a  month !    Maybe 
I'll  change  next  summer.    Ponies  are  too  small 
To  farm,  and  I  don't  want  to  sell  them  off. 
They  might  receive  abuse.  Poor  brutes,  poor  brutes ! 
Eelay  as  you  will,  road-life  is  hard  for  them." 

"You've  had  adventures." 

He  slowly  shook  his  head. 
"No,  mostly  weather.    I  used  to  have  a  soft 
And  ruddy  face  like  little  Mabel  there. 
You've  seen  a  board  under  the  wind  and  sun 
And  rain  and  sleet.    It  wears  and  warps  a  man 
Into  my  shape." 

Came  Fiddler's  easy  drawl: 
6 '  Tell  us  about  the  time  they  stopped  the  mail, 
When  you  got  the  scar. ' ' 

The  child's  voice  fluted  in, 
"Mother  says,  come  to  supper." 


[116] 


We  drew  round 

The  kitchen  table.    Coffee,  steak,  potatoes 
Were  richly  odorous ;  conversation  fell. 
Our  hostess  saw  and  did,  but  seldom  spoke ; 
Neat,  matronly,  low-voiced,  with  gracious  eyes 
That  guessed  and  answered  thoughts.    In  that  low 

room, 

In  the  mellow  lamplight,  hospitality 
Admitted  us  to  see  the  tender  glow 
Of  family  love ;  and  as  we  broke  the  bread, 
We  knew  the  blessing,  while  we  heard  without 
The  storm's  white  fury  moving  through  the  dark. 


[117] 


II 

IN  A  PUBLIC  PLACE 

We  men  and  little  Mabel  had  drawn  near 
To  the  purr  of  the  great  heater.  She  was  whispering 
Night-counsel  to  her  dolly.    Fiddler's  voice 
Boomed  slow:  "We  want  the  story  of  the  scar, 
And  the  highwaymen. ' ' 

That  mark  went  white  and  red. 

"No,  I  can't!    Ain't  worth  while.    Fiddler,  you, — 
You  know  a-plenty  stories,  for  you  made 
The  first  house  and  first  well  along  this  road. 
We'll  smoke  and  listen." 

Fiddler  nothing  loath 

Of  spokesmanship  began.    "There's  Beaver  office  — 
Down  stream,  you  know.    The  country  was  just  new. 
The  government  was  called  on,  but  a  woman 
Settled  the  matter. 

"In  a  two  room  shack, 

Jim  Lane  and  Mrs.  Lane  and  three  grown  girls 
Kept  the  office.    Maybe  sixty  dollars  pay 
A  year  for  stamps  he  cancels.    Folks  for  mail 
All  hours,  and  every  day,  and  not  convenient 
People  should  just  walk  in. 

"There  was  a  lad, 
An  old  bach  nigh  on  forty  years  of  age, 

[118] 


Named  Charley  Baxter,  lived  off  on  the  ridge, 

A  cousin  to  the  Baxters  up  above, 

Set  in  his  way,  respecting  his  own  word 

As  if  from  Scripture.    Like  old  Shakespeare  said, 

*  Now  when  I  speak,  let  all  the  dogs  keep  still. ' 

This  Baxter  fellow  would  walk  in  at  Lane 's, 

No  ceremony.    And  Mrs.  Lane,  she  said, 

Real  easy,  not  at  all  correcting  like, 

'Charley,  it  ain't  convenient  for  us  folks. 

Why  don't  you  knock?    We'll  open  up  the  door.' 

"  'Because,'  says  Baxter,  'this  is  a  public  place; 
Government  office.    I  come  in  when  I  like.' 

"  'You'd  better  not,'  she  says;  'this  is  my  house, 
And  now  you  got  your  mail,  clear  out  of  it ! 9 

"  'I'd  stay,'  says  he,  'but  the  men  are  waiting  for  me 
In  the  road  to  go  a-threshing!' 

"Old  man  Lane, 

Dodger  of  trouble,  wanted  to  resign. 
The  neighbors  wouldn't  hear  it.    All  the  roads 
Bun  by  his  house.    Government  couldn't  find 
Another  man  to  take  it.    Baxter  would, 
But  frightful  roads  to  his  place. 

"Months  rolled  on, 

This  Baxter  fellow  raspin'  at  the  Lanes, 
And  folk  a-grinnin '  at  him  'bout  his  rights, 
Just  like  a  pack  of  schoolboys  set  to  tease 
Some  chap  that's  easy  mad. 

[119] 


"  'Bout  six  o'clock 

One  April  morning,  lie  went  to  Lane's  door, 
Opened  and  started  in.    Lane,  doin'  chores, 
Heard  shrieking,  rnn,  laid  holt  and  jerked  him  out; 
And  they  begun.    Now  Lane  was  getting  old; 
Baxter  soon  had  him  under  pounding  him. 
But  Mrs.  Lane  come  charging  on  the  scene, 
Soon  changed  all  that.    She  grabbed  a  garden  rake ; 
The  iron  teeth  tore  Baxter's  shirt  away, 
And  scratched  his  scalp,  and  notched  him  in  the  ear ; 
His  hat  come  off  while  he  was  fighting  Lane. 
She  chased  him,  raked  him  good  while  he  was  rolling 
Under  the  barbed  wire  out  into  the  road, 
And  threw  his  black  hat  after  him. 

' l  Old  man  Eyan 

Was  passing  with  a  load,  and  so  the  story 
Didn't  lose  nothing  from  the  Irishman 
That  had  the  telling  of  it. 

"  Charley  Baxter 

Couldn't  give  in.    Eidicule,  too.    Some  fellow 
Say  t garden  rake'  and  Charley 'd  try  to  whip  him. 
He  wanted  law,  and  swore  to  the  J.  P. 
That  Lane  assaulted  him  in  a  public  place. 

"They  all  with  old  man  Eyan,  up  to  Stevens 's 

To  try  to  settle  it.    The  justice  sat, 

Heard  everything  all  parties  had  to  say,  — 

Baxter  oratin'  on  the  rights  of  man,  — 

Eubbed  his  bald  head,  looked  in  the  book  of  statutes ; 

Took  three  chews  of  tobacco,  passed  the  plug; 

[120] 


Says,  *  Out  of  my  jurisdiction :  for  all  turns 

On  whether  Lane's  house  is  a  public  place, 

Or  whether  the  office  is  a  private  dwelling. 

The  statutes  are  silent.    I  will  write  to  Washington. 

Meantime  the  court  will  order  peace  be  kept, 

And  costs  assessed  to  the  plaintiff.7 

6  i  Government 

At  Washington  ain't  in  a  hurry.    They've 
A  lot  to  think  of.    Finally  come  word, 
'Tell  Charley  Baxter  that  he'll  have  to  knock.' 
And  Mrs.  Lane  wrote:  ' Baxter  ain't  been  here 
For   ten   months.     If   he    comes,   we'll   make   him 
knock.'  " 

"What  did  the  fellow  do  about  his  mail?" 

"Changed  his  address  to  town.     'Twas  fifteen  mile. 
And  two  years  afterwards  he  left  these  parts ; 
I  don't  know  what  become  of  him,  —  went  west." 


[121] 


Ill 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  KEY  ONCE  MORE 

Our  pipes  drummed  brisk  approval ;  we  refilled. 
Fiddler  enjoyed  slow  whiffs.    "I  wish  I  knew 
The  way  to  tell  a  thing.    This  is  a  man 
A-looking  for  a  house  to  fit  his  key." 

"What!    Him?    Heard  of  him  lately!" 

"No." 

The  driver 

Sat  bolt  upright.    "That's  the  lad  helped  me  out 
When  I  got  this. ' '    A  finger  touched  the  scar. 
Somewhere  a  cricket  chirped ;  the  storm  was  loud ; 
Fiddler  stowed  chunks  in  the  heater,  and  flame  petals 
Curled  eagerly  about  them. 

"It  was  five, 

No,  six  years  back,  and  farther  up  the  creek. 
You  see,  he  always  follows  streams.    I  heard 
Two  men  a-riding  up  behind,  and  looked, 
But  didn't  know  'em.    Suddenly,  my  head 
Went  busted  on  a  loaded  club.    I  lay 
In  the  dirt  and  couldn  't  move.    They  started  cutting 
The  mail  bags  loose.    In  front,  over  a  rise 
'Bout  sixty  yards  away  he  came.    They  saw  him. 
One  fired  and  missed.    Maybe  to  scare  him, 

[122] 


Maybe,  —  the  nerves  of  a  new  hand.    He  just  kept 

walking ; 

They  grabbed  the  bags  and  rode.    The  government 
Gave  them  a  contract  down  at  Leavenworth. 
He  brought  me  water,  and  he  drove  me  back 
To  the  next  house,  and  I  laid  off  one  trip. 
Six  years  ago.    I  saw  him  just  once  since. ' ' 

" About  this  house,  this  key?"  I  ventured. 

"0," 

Drawled  Fiddler;  "it's  his  house,  but  it  isn't  there. 
He  keeps  the  key  and  carries  it  all  round. " 

"Yes,  an  imagined  house?    The  perfect  place 
You'd  build  if  you  were  rich?" 

"No,  this  was  real. 

A  house  he  built  upon  his  claim.    The  land 
Was  river  bottom.    Came  a  flood.    We  think 
We  know  the  rains.    It  pours  half  a  day. 
Come  three,  four  days  together,  local  fall 
And  upstream  waters  joining,  make  the  floods 
Our  fathers  tell  of.    So  the  river  bed 
Got  shifted,  muxed  his  fields,  and  spread  fine  sand 
Deep  on  his  crops.    The  house  was  gone.    Nobody 
Would  recognize  the  place ;  then  he  went  looney, 
And  goes  a-lookin',  lookinV 


[123] 


Mrs.  Fiddler 

Had  put  the  little  girl  to  bed  and  come 
To  sit  in  the  rocker.    Easy  music  lived 
In  her  quiet  voice.    "I  know,  he  told  me  once, 
Or  tried  to  tell.    And  my  sister  wrote  about  him. 
A  girl  was  coming  out  to  be  his  wife ; 
Clear  from  Ohio,  by  herself.    He  went 
To  the  railroad  town,  and  waited.    No  trains  came 
Because  of  floods,  and  no  news,  for  the  wires 
Went  down.    He  waited,  heard  of  wrecks ; 
Still  waited  trembling,  till  the  third  day  brought 
The  list  of  killed,  her  body. 

"He  turned  back, 

Alone,  the  forty  miles.    The  flood  had  drowned 
His  farm,  —  left  just  such  ruin  in  his  mind. 
The  stream's  bed  where  the  garden  used  to  be. 
The  suffering  of  it  isn't  understood 
Until  you  see  the  man. ' '    Her  low  tones  ceased, 
The  tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

We  studied,  moveless, 

The  dull  glow  of  the  stove,  and  the  clicks  of  the  fire 
Till  the  driver's  voice  began  with  little  jars, 
As  when  a  wagon  wheel  grinds  on  the  brake. 
"I  hope  he's  in  a  good  warm  house  to-night.  — 
It's  time  to  find  our  bunks.  What  a  roar  in  the  woods 
Of  the  wind  and  the  snow ! — This  man  —  he  scarcely 

changes ! 
The  ants  soon  honeycomb  a  log  in  the  grass. 


[124] 


Life  shines  and  showers,  or  blows  and  drips  on  the 

mind, 
And  burns  and  freezes.    Something  in  his  nature  — 

"Be  nasty  roads  to-morrow,  even  if 

The  storm  dies  down,  and  tough  on  pony  flesh. " 


125] 


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